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HYLAND'S  MAMMOTH 

HIBERNIAN 
SONGSTER 


A  COLLECTION  OF 


OVER  5OO  SONGS 


THAT  ARE  DEAR  TO  THE  IRISH  HEART 


INCLUDING  SHEETS  OF  SELECTED  Music  AND  NUMEROUS  TOASTS 
AND  SENTIMENTS 


EDITED  BY  "THE  BLACKBIRD" 


Trice:    Taper.  25  CenU;  Cloth,  SO  Cents 


J.  S.  HYLAND  &  CO.,   PUBLISHERS 

CHICAGO 


HOLD  ON,  THERE 


The  Publishers  want  a  word  with  you.  We  have  christened 
this  book  the  "Mammoth  Hibernian  Songster"  just  because 
it  is  the  largest  and  best  collection  of  Irish  songs  ever  yet 
squeezed  into  a  single  volume.  In  fact,  it  is  a  storehouse 
where  you  can  always  find  that  very  ditty  you  were  "trying 
to  think  of."  Moreover,  every  song  is  genuine;  every  line  is 
correct;  every  sentiment  is  "kindly  Irish  of  the  Irish."  It 
is  a  treasury  of  national  minstrelsy  for  every  age  and  taste. 
Not  a  song  is  contained  in  it  that  can  wound  a  sensitive 
nature,  and  not  one  of  those  vulgar,  unpatriotic  travesties  that 
are  miscalled  "Irish"  by  those  who  know  not  Ireland.  It  is 
the  one  book,  indeed,  to  make  our  song-birds  happy;  because 
it  is  the  cleanest,  completest  and  handsomest  of  Irish  song- 
sters. Our  race  is  a  musical  one.  Our  melodies  beat  the  world 
for  tenderness  and  sublimity.  The  land  we  spring  from  has 
been  known  as  the  "Isle  of  Song."  The  harp  of  its  ancient 
bards  is  our  emblem  among  the  nations.  There  is  a  strong 
movement  now  on  foot  for  the  revival  of  its  ancient  glories 
in  this  regard,  and  we  believe  our  Songster  will  help  on  the 
movement  by  arousing  the  sympathies  and  good  taste  of  the 
masses,  on  whom  all  such  movements  must  finally  depend  for 
success.  Some  of  the  choicest  melodies  in  the  collection  have 
their  sheet  music  attached,  as  an  encouragement  to  the  tech- 
nical study  of  "the  art  divine."  It  is  the  confident  hope  of 
the  publishers  that  their  Songster  will  be  welcomed  in  every 
Irish-American  home,  and  will  serve  to  noble  purpose  in  guid- 
ing the  choice  of  youth,  in  recalling  sweet  memories  to  the 
aged  Exiles  of  Erin,  and  in  the  comfort  and  inspiration  that 
all  may  gather  even  from  perusing  its  pages,  for — 

The  bards  may  go  down  to  the  place  of  their  slumbers, 
The  lyre  of  the  charmer  be  hushed  in  the  grave, 

But  far  in  the  future  the  power  of  their  numbers 
Shall  kindle  the  hearts  of  our  faithful  and  brave. 


{Copyright,  1901,  by  J.   S.  Hyland  ft  Co.] 

ii 


INDEX. 


Absent    Irishman,    The 156 

Acushla  Gal   Machree    17 

Adieu!     My    Native    Land,    Adieu! 7".    D.    McGee  10 

After   the   Battle Thomas   Moore  22 

Aileen    Aroon Gerald   Griffin  195 

Aileen,    Mavourneen    7 

Ailleen  John  Banim  131 

Alley  Croker Samuel  Lover  201 

Am  I  Not  Fondly  ? 19 

Angels'    Whisper Samuel    Lover  21 

Annie  Dear    181 

Arise  From  Thy  Slumbers Thomas  Moore  44 

Arrah,  Cushla  Mavourneen 154 

Arranmore    Thomas   Moore  19 

As  a  Beam  O'er  the  Face Thomas  Moore  22 

As   Slow  Our   Ship Thomas  Moore  1 8 

A   Place  in  Thy  Memory,  Dearest Gerald  Griffin  18 

At  the  Mid  Hour  of   Night Thomas  Moore  22 

At  the  Yellow  Boreen 164 

Avenging  and  Bright Thomas  Moore  22 

Avondhu    186 

Awake  and  Lie  Dreaming  No  More Thomas  Davis  136 

Bad  Luck  to  This  Marching Charles  Lever  134 

Banks   of  the   Shannon 93 

Banshee,  The  Samuel  Lover  12 

Bard  of  Armagh 97 

Bard's  Legacy,  The Thomas  Moore  56 

Barney    McCoy    210 

Barney  O'Hea   136 

Barney    O'Toole    138 

Beautiful    Erin    27 

Beautiful   Girl   of   Kildare 96 

Beautiful  Isle  of  the  Sea George  Cooper  23 

Before  the  Battle   Thomas  Moore  27 

Before  the  Sun    Rose  at  Yester  Dawn 165 

Bells  of   Shandon,  The i Father  Mahony  50 

Believe    Me,   If   All    Those    Endearing Thomas   Moore  19 

Biddy  McCarty    137 

Blackbird,    The    130 

Blarney,  The William  Carleton  66 

Boatman   of   Kinsale,    The Thomas  Daris  203 

Bonny   Irish   Boy    97 

Bowld   Sojer   Boy    Samuel  Lover  140 

Boys  of  Kilkenny,  The 134, 

Boys   of    Wexf ord,    The 215 

Brennan    on   the    Moor 137 

Bridget    Donahue    /. • 153 

Bright    Fairies 165 

Brisk  Irish  Lads,  The 199 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Rev.  C.  Wolfe  138 

By  the  Banks  of  the   Shannon 93 

By  That  Lake  Whose  Gloomy  Shore Thomas  Moore  26 

Captain     Megan     195 

Cheer!   Boys,   Cheer!    Henry  Russell  83 

Claddagh  Boatman,   The Gerald  Griffin  63 

Clare's  Dragoons   Thomas  Davis  140 

Colleen   Bawn,   The    , ./.   E.   Carpenter  85 

iii 


2066218 


iv  INDEX. 

Colleen  Dhas  Cruthin  Amoe   29 

Colleen  Dhas  Machree    98 

Come  Back  to  Erin   26 

Come  O'er  the  Sea   Thomas  Moore  23 

Come  Rest  in  This  Bosom Thomas  Moore  23 

Come  Send  Round  the  Wine   Thomas  Moore  28 

Connor  the  Fisherman   153 

Coolun,  The Samuel  Ferguson  113 

Cormac    Oge    185 

Couldst  Thou  Look  as  Dear Thomas  Moore  7 

Croppy  Boy,  The   Carroll  Malone  212 

Cushla  Mo  Chree  J.  F.   Waller  177 

Darby    Kelly    158 

Dark  Fairy   Rath,  The 173 

Dawning  of  the  Day /.  C.  Mangan  163 

Dear  Erin,  How  Sweetly   (with  music) Dr.  Drennan  121 

Dear  Harp  of  My  Country Thomas  Moore  27 

Dear  Harp  of  My  Country  (in  Gaelic) Thomas  Moore  219 

Dear  Irish  Boy,  The  56 

Dear  Little  Colleen   209 

Dear  Old  Ireland    T.  D.  Sullivan  142 

Death  of  Sarsfield,  The 104 

Dermot  Asthore Mrs.  Crawford  65 

Desmond's  Song    Thomas  Moore  159 

Down  by  the  Sally  Gardens A.  Graves  164 

Draherin   OMachree 170 

Drink  to  Her Thomas  Moore  29 

Dublin    Bay     Crofton  29 

Dublin  Lasses    78 

Dying   Soldier,    The    106 

Earth  Is  Fair  Around  Us,  The 181 

Eily  Mavourneen,  The   Rose  of  Killarney '. .  158 

Ellen    Bawn    ' J.  C.  Mangan  201 

Emigrant's  Farewell,  The Mrs.  Norton  87 

Emmett    145 

Einmett's   Farewell   to  His  Love 102 

Erin's  Green   Shore 98 

Erin's   Lovely   Home    146 

Erin  Is  My  Home Carpenter  32 

Erin,   Mavourneen    32 

Erjn,    My   Country    W.    Macomb  202 

Erin  of  the  Streams   90 

Erin,   O   Erin ! Thomas  Moore  30 

Erin!    The  Tear  and  the  Smile    (with  music) Thomas  Moore  149 

Ever  of  Thee   George  Linley  30 

Exile's    Lament,  The    T.  D.   McGee  94 

Exile's  Request,  The   198 

Exile  of   Erin,    The    Thomas  Campbell  115 

Fair  Hills  of  Old  Ireland,  The 146 

Fair  Hills  of  Holy  Ireland,  The T.  D.  McGee  165 

Fairest,    Put    On    Awhile Thomas   Moore  166 

Fairies  Are  Dancing,  The 182 

Fairy    Boy,    The Samuel  Lover  66 

Fairy    Haunts    175 

Farewell!    But  Whenever  You  Welcome Thomas  Moore  31 

Farewell   to    Kathleen    76 

Far  in   the  Mountains   166 

Faugh    a    Ballagh    Thomas    Davis  128 

Fenian's    Escape,   The 101 

Fenian  Men,  The Scanlan  141 

Fill    the   Bumper    Fair Thomas  Moore  167 

Flight  of  the   Earls A.  Graves  211 

Flower    of    Finae,    The Thomas    Davis  163 

Fly   Not   Yet Thomas   Moore  194 

Forlorn    Hope,    The Brigade   Song  102 

For  Ireland,    I'd   No-    Tell 180 

Fortune  in   the    Fire    '; 147 

Fortune  Teller,    The Thomas  Moore  54 


INDEX.  T 

Four-Leaved  Shamrock,  The Stmuel  Lever  127 

From  Life  Without  Freedom Thomas  Moore  34 

Garden  Where  the  Praties  Grow 97 

Garryowen    144 

Gentlemen  of  the  Army,  The 72 

Girl    I've    Left   Behind   Me,    The Samuel   Lover  1 1 7 

Glen  of  Aherlow,  The Charles  J.  Kickham  208 

Go  Where  Glory  Waits  Thee Thomas  Moore  32 

God  Save  Ireland    T.  D.  Sullivan  144 

Gra    Gal   Machree    Gerald    Griffin  83 

Green  Above  the   Red,  The Thomas  Davis  88 

Green    Bushes     195 

Green   Flag,   The    139 

Green  Little  Shamrock  of  Ireland,  The 105 

Green   Mossy  Banks  of  the  Lee,  The 205 

Green   Linnet,   The    76 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The R.  A.  Milliken  157 

Had    I    a   Heart 197 

Handful  of   Earth,  A 95 

Harp  That  Once  Thro'  Tara's  Hall,  The  (with  music)  ..Thomas  Moore  24 

Harp  That  Once  Thro'  Tara's  Hall,  The  (in  Gaelic)  ...  Thomas  Moore  219 

Has  Sorrow  Thy  Young  Days  Shaded? Thomas  Moore  168 

Have  You  Been  at  Carrick  ? 1 69 

Hear  Me  But  Once   Thomas  Moore  160 

He   Came  From  the  North 169 

Her  Hair  Was  Like  the  Beaten  Gold 170 

Here's  to  the    Bower    Thomas   Moore  203 

Here's  to   You,    Old   Land Michael  Scanlan  135 

Holly  and  Ivy  Girl   206 

How  Dear  to  Me  the  Hour Thomas  Moore  go 

Hunting   Song   Thomas  Moore  180 

Hush,   Baby   Mine    1 69 

I   Dreamed   That  Old   Ireland  Was  Free 13 

I   Left  Ireland  and  Mother  Because  We  Were  Poor 209 

I'd    Mourn   the  Hopes    Thomas   Moore  206 

I'll    Not   Reveal 172 

111  Omen   Thomas  Moore  78 

I    Love  My   Love Gerald   Griffin  1 7 1 

I  Love  to  Wander 172 

I'm  Dreaming  of  Thee,  Norah 34 

I'm   Leaving   Old   Ireland 99 

I'm  Not  Myself  at  All Samuel  Lover  74 

I'm  Very  Happy  Where  I  Am Dion  Boucicault  63 

In   a  Valley   Far  Away 171 

In  Dublin's   Sweet  City 95 

I    Once  Loved  a  Boy 172 

Ireland     145 

Ireland  Will  Yet  Be  Free 150 

Irish    Castles    •. 196 

Irish    Emigrant's    Lament Lady   Dufferin  37 

Irish   Exile's  Love,  The .- ". 152 

Irish    Fair   Day,    An 96 

Irish    Girl,   The    116 

Irish   Hearts  for  the  Ladies 150 

Irish    Hurrah,    The    Thomas  Davis  104 

Irish    Hussar,    The    9 

Irish    Jig,    The    114 

Irish  Lullaby A.  Graves  173 

Irish    Maiden's    Lament,    The Denny    Lane  71 

Irish   Maiden's   Song,   The John  /Banim  84 

Irish    Mary    John   Banim  34 

Irish    Molly    O 92 

Irish   Peasant  to  His  Mistress,  The   Thomas  Moore  54 

Irish   Rapparees    Edward   Walsh  202 

Irish   Stew,  An 133 

Irish    War-Song    Thomas   Moore  166 

Irishman,    The James    Orr  91 

Irishman's    Toast,    An 207 


vi  INDEX. 

Saw  From  the  Beach Thomas  Moore  33 

I   Saw  Thy  Form Thomas  Moore  33 

I   See  Them  on  Their   Winding  Way Thomas   Moore  8 

Isle  of  Beauty,  Fare  Thee  Well Gerald  Griffin  14 

It  Chanced  When  I  Was  Walking 174 

It  Is  Not  the  Tear Thomas   Moore  36 

It's   Little    For   Glory  I    Care Charles  Lever  12 

I've  a   Secret  to  Tell  You , Thomas  Moore  35 

I    Was   the   Boy   for    Bewitching    'Em 196 

I  Would  Not  Die 143 

Joys  That  Pass  Away 33 

Juanita    127 

Kate    Kearney    Lady   Morgan  107 

Kate    O'Brien    Charles   Jeffreys  36 

Kate    O'Shane .George    Linley  35 

Kate    of    Garnavilla    E.    Lysaght  86 

Kate  of  Kilkenny   93 

Kathleen    Mavourneen    Mrs.    Crofton  36 

Kathleen  O'More 160 

Katie   O'Ryan    39 

Katty  Avourneen    31 

Katty    Darling    155 

Katy   Darling    86 

Killarney   M.  J.  Balfe  125 

Kitty    Tyrrell    Samuel   Lover  35 

Lament  for  Ireland   1 70 

Lament  for  Sarsfield,  The  204 

Land  of  the  West,   The    Russell  21 1 

Larry    M'Hale    Charles    Lever  1 1 

Last  Rose  of  Summer,  The Thomas  Moore  59 

Lay  His   Sword    By   His   Side Thomas  Moore  175 

Lay  of  the  Dying  Bard 183 

Let   Erin   Remember    (with  music) Thomas   Moore  149 

Light   Guitar,  The    Thomas   Moore  14 

Light  Sounds  the  Harp Thomas  Moore  204 

Limerick   Is   Beautiful    Dion  Boucicault  15 

Limerick  Races   '. 148 

Live  In   My   Heart Samuel   Lever  65 

Long  Farewell  I  Send  to  Thee   39 

Love-Dreams    Thomas   Moore  214 

Love,  My  Mary,  Dwells  With  Thee Gerald  Griffin  38 

Love  Thee,  Dearest,  Love  Thee Thomas  Moore  37 

Love's    Light    Summer-Cloud    Thomas    Moore  38 

Love's  Longings  200 

Love's  Young  Dream   . .  . Thomas  Moore  28 

Low-Backed  Car,  The  V.   Vousden  67 

Ma    Ailleen    Asthore    91 

Maid    of   Erin,   The    1 18 

Maids  of  Merry  Ireland,   The    R.    Wynne  124 

Maire  Ban  Astor Thomas  Davis  114 

Mantle  So  Green,  The    161 

March  to  the   Battle   Field    Thomas  Moore  90 

Mary    Aileen     51 

Mary   Astore    65 

Mary   of   Fermoy    75 

Mary  of  Limerick  Town    179 

Mary    of    Tipperary    197 

Mary    of  the    Curling   Hair Gerald   Griffin  68 

Mary   O'Mara    156 

Maureen    B.    W.  Proctor  88 

Maureen  Mavourneen   208 

May-Dew,    The    8 

Meeting  of  the  Waters,   The  (with  music) Thomas  Moore  80 

Meeting  of  the   Waters,    The    (in  Gaelic) Thomas  Moore  218 

Memory  of  the  Dead,  The T.   Davis  64 

Men  of  Tipperary,  The    Thomas  Davis  62 

Mild   Mabel   Kelly   .  \ Samuel  Ferguson  163 

Minstrel   Boy,    The    \ Thomas   Moore  57 


INDEX.  vii 

Minstrel  Bey,  The  (in  Oaelic) Thomas  Moore  218 

AIo  Cailin  Donn   no 

Molly     Asthore      40 

Molly  Bawn    Samuel  Lover  43 

Molly    CXrew    Samuel    Lover  16 

Mollie   Di*rling    41 

Molly,  O !    151 

Mother,   He's   Going  Away    Samuel  Lover  147 

Mountain    Sprite,    The    Thomas  Moore  55 

My  Boat  Is  On  the  Shore Lord  Byron  88 

My    Countrymen,   Awake T.   Davis  175 

My   Dark-Haired   Girl    Samuel  Lover  151 

My  Dear  Little  Irish  Colleen 92 

My  Emmett's  No  More   41 

My    Gentle    Harp    Thomas    Moore  176 

My  Gra  Gal  Machree  77 

My   Grave    Thomas  Davis  53 

My  Heart's  In  Old  Ireland    15 

My  Irish  Wife T.  D.  McGee  210 

My  Land  (with  music) 216 

My   Little  Irish  Queen    152 

My    Love   She   Was   Born    170 

My  Love's  the  Fairest  Creature    176 

My    Noble   Irish   Girl 193 

My  Own   177 

My  Poor  Dog  Tray Thomas  Campbell  73 

My  Poor  Heart  Is  Sad    129 

My  Rose   • 167 

Nation   Once  Again,    A Thomas  Davis  129 

Native    Music    Samuel   Lover  7 

Nay,  Tell  Me  Not,  Dear Thomas  Moore  177 

Ned  of   the  Hills 82 

Night  Closed  Around Thomas  Moore  213 

No   Irish   Need  Apply    i  oo 

No,    Not    More    welcome Thomas    Moore  199 

Norah  Creina   Thomas  Moore  37 

Norah  Creina,  See  the  Flowers   198 

Norah    Darling    89 

Norah   McShane    42 

Norah,  the  Pride  of  Kildare   41 

Norah  O'Neal   IV.  S.  Hayes  40 

Noreen    C.    Linley  8 

Norine    Maurine     99 

Now,   Can't   You  Be  Aisy? Charles  Lever  13 

O'Blarney    85 

Och!    Norah   Dear    48 

O'Donnell  Aboo!    (with  music) M.  J.   McCann  20 

Oft   in  the   Stilly    Night    Thomas  Moore  50 

Oh,   Amber-Haired   Nora    179 

Oh,    Banquet    Not    Thomas    Moore  43 

Oh!   Bay  of  Dublin    Lady  Dufferin  86 

Oh,  Blame  Not  the  Bard! Thomas  Moore  43 

Oh,   Breathe  Not   His   Name! Thomas  Moore  45 

Oh,   Doubt  Me  Not   Thomas  Moore  44 

Oh,  Had  We  Some  Bright  Little  Isle Thomas  Moore  46 

Oh  Leave  Not  Your  Kathleen   too 

Oh,  Limerick  Is  Beautiful Michael   Scanlan  70 

Oh,  Love  Is  a  Hunter  Boy Thomas  Moore  179 

Oh,   Proud   Were   the   Chieftains    Thomas   Moore  178 

Oh,   Remember  the  Time!    Thomas  Moore  47 

Oh,   Soon    Return    Thomas  Moore  46 

Oh,    the    Marriage     Thomas    Davis  214 

Oh !    Think    Not   My   Spirits    Thomas   Moore  45 

Oh,   'Tis   Sweet  to  Think Thomas   J.loora  174 

Oh,    When   I    Breathed    .  .  Thomas   Mnore  199 

Oh !    Where's  the  Slave ...  Thomas  Moore  45 

Oh,   Yes — So  Well,    So  Tenderly! Thomas  Moore  47 

Old    Ireland's    Liberty    105 


viii  INDEX. 

Old   Ireland  I   Adore James    Walsh  84 

Old  Race,  The   T.  D.  McGee  101 

O,   Erin,  My  Country  1 7 

O  Let  Me  Like  a  Soldier  Fall M.  J.  Balfe  73 

O  Open  the  Door    197 

O,   Sons  of  Erin 143 

O   Wearily,   Wearily    Thomas   Moore  176 

One  Bumper  at  Parting  Thomas  Moore  44 

One   Night  in  My  Youth Thomas  Moore  180 

One  Sunday  After  Mass  181 

Orange    and    Green    Thomas    Davis  212 

Origin    of   the    Harp,    The Thomas    Moore  60 

Ould  Ireland,  You're  My  Darlin' 148 

Our   Motherland   1 50 

Paddies    Evermore    162 

Paddy    Blake's   Echo Samuel  Lover  71 

Paddy's   Island   of  Green    112 

Paddy's   Land    .• 112 

Pastheen   Fion    Dr.  Samuel  Ferguson  49 

Pat  Malloy  1 1 1 

Patriot    Mother,    The    215 

Peasant's    Bride,    The 153 

Peggy   Bawn    162 

Place  in  Thy    Memory,   A Gerald  Griffin  18 

Pretty   Girl    Milking  Her   Cow 47 

Pride  of  Mayo,  The   205 

Rakes  of  Mallow,  The   164 

Reconciliation,    The     John    Banim  51 

Red-Haired  Man's  Wife,  The   187 

Remember  the  Glories  of  Brian  the  Brave Thomas  Moore  48 

Rich  and  Rare  Were  the  Gems  She  Wore  (with  music)  Thomas  Moore  189 

Ring  the  Bell   Softly   130 

Rising    of    the    Moon 132 

Robert   Emmett 93 

Rory   O'More    Samuel  Lover  49 

Roisin    Dubh    1 78 

Rose   of   Erin,  The    no 

Rose  of  Kilkenny,  The  200 

Rose  of   Tralee,   The    96 

Savourneen  Deelish   52 

Send  Back  My  Barney  to  Me 161 

Shamus    O'Brien    Lefann  52 

Shane  Glas   168 

Shan   Van    Vogh,    The    Charles   Kickham  103 

She  Is  Far  From  the  Land Thomas  Moore  50 

Shuile  Agra   79 

Silence  Is   In   Our   Festal  Halls Thomas   Moore  182 

Soldier    of    Erin,    The    .' ISS 

Soldier's  Tear,  A no 

Soggarth   Aroon    John  Banim  113 

Song   of    Innisfail    131 

Song  of  the   Volunteers    Thomas   Davis  112 

Song  of  War,  The   Thomas  Moore  57 

Sprig  of  Shillelah,  The Henry  Code  89 

St.   Kevin  and  King  O'Toole   159 

St.  Senanus  and  the  Lady Thomas  Moore  46 

Strike   the   Gay   Harp    Thomas   Moore  56 

Sublime  Was  the  Warning  Thomas  Moore  53 

Sweet   Harp Samuel  Lover  1 52 

Sweet  Kitty  Magee    Samuel  Lover  191 

Sweet  Kitty  Neil    John  F.   Waller  54 

Sweet   Land  of  Song   42 

Sweet   Irish    Girl,    A 21 

Sweet    Sybyl    194 

Take  Back  the  Virgin  Page   Thomas  Moore  55 

Terence's    Farewell    Lady  Dufferin  74 

Terry   Malone    1 60 

Terry   O'Rourke    193 


IN»HX.  ix 

There  Are  Sounds  of   Mirth    Thomas  Moore  184 

There's  a  Colleen  Fair  as  May 18.2 

There's  a  Land  (with  music) 190 

There's  a  Sweet  Little  Spot 69 

The   Green   Above   the   Red    154 

The   Silent   Bird   Is    Hid    185 

The  Tie  Is  Broke,   My  Irish   Girl Gerald  Griffin  70 

This  Life   Is  All   Chequered    Thomas  Moore  59 

This  Rock  That  Overhangs  the  Foam Thombs  Moore  184 

Tho'  Dark  Are  Our  Sorrows   Thomas  Moore  183 

Though    the    Last    Glimpse    of    Erin Thomas    Moore  58 

Three  Fishers  Went   Sailing   68 

Three  Leaves  of  Shamrock    95 

Through   Erin's   Isle    (with  music) Thomas  Moore  81 

Thy  Harp,   Beloved   Erin    Thomas  Moore  101 

Thy   Welcome,    O'Leary    Thomas   Moore  187 

Time  I've   Lost  in   Wooing,   The Thomas  Moore  55 

Tipperary    Recruiting    Song    Street   Ballad  109 

'Tis  Evening   Brings  My  Heart   132 

'Tis  Gone  and  Forever   Thomas  Moore  61 

"Tis   Sweet  to   Think Thomas   Moore  61 

'Tis  the   Shamrock,   the  Shamrock    (with  music) Thomas  Moore  25 

To    Ireland     Thomas    Moore  135 

To  Ladies'   Eyes Thomas  Moore  60 

Top  O'  the  Mornin' John  Locke  174 

Town   of    Passage,   The Fr,   Mahoney  82 

'Twas   Early  One   Morning    185 

'Twas   One  of  Those  Dreams Thomas   Moore  188 

Two  Heads  Are  Better   Than   One 10 

Up   for   the   Green !    75 

Valley  Lay   Smiling   Before  Me,    The Thomas  Moore  58 

Vesper    Hymn,    The     Thomas   Moore  119 

Voice  of  Her  I  Love,   The - 14 

Vow   of    Tipperary,   The    .  , Thomas  Davis  94 

Wanderer's   Return,   The    172 

Wearing  of  the   Green,  The    Dion  Boucicault  104 

Weep   No  More   Thomas  Moore  187 

Weep    On,    Weep   On Thomas   Moore  .120 

Welcome  as  Flowers  of  May 186 

Welcome,    The     Thomas    Davis  133 

We   May  Be  Happy  Yet A.  Bonn  79 

We  May  Roam  Through  This  World  Tliomas  Moore  116 

We  Have  Lived  and  Loved  Together 1 1 

What   Will   You   Do,   Love Samuel  Lover  124 

When    Cold  In   the   Earth    Thomas   Moore  188 

.Whene'er    I    See    Those   Smiling   Eyes Thomas  Moore  191 

When  First  I    Met  Thee Thomas  Moore  119 

When    He    Who    Adores    Thee Thomas   Moore  116 

When    Summer   Comes    191 

When    the    Grass    Grows   Green 106 

When    the    Swallows    Homeward    Fly Thomas    Moore  128 

When  Thou  Art   Nigh    Thomas  Moore  94 

When   Through    Life   Unblest   We   Rove Thomas  Moore  127 

When    Twilight    Dews     1 1 

When    War    Was    Heard Thomas    Moore  192 

Where  the   Grass  Grows   Green 106 

While   Gazing   On    the   Moon's   Light Thomas   Moore  123 

While    History's    Muse Thomas    Moore  120 

Whistling   Thief,    The Samuel   Lover  69 

White   Cockade,   The A.   Callanan  69 

Why,  Liquor  of  Life   Samuel  Lover  188 

Widow   Machree    Samuel  Lover  108 

Widow    Malone    Charles    Lever  107 

Widow's    Message,    The    Helen   Forester  61 

Willy  Reilly   123 

Willie   Reilly's  Courtship    j  18 

Winter  It  Is   Past,   The 185 

Woodpecker,  The   \ 167 


x  INDEX. 

Woods  •£  Green   Eri»,  The -,8 

Wreathe  the  Bowl   Thomas  Moore  igt 

Wren-Boys'  Song,  The   186 

Ye  Dark-Hair'd   Youths   66 

You'll  Remember  Me M.  W.  Balfe  125 

Young  Ellen   Loraine    200 

Young    May    Moon,    The Thomas   Moore  58 

Young   Rose,    The    Thomas  Moore  60 

You    Remember    Ellen    Thomas   Moore  126 

You   Would    Not    Leave    Your    Norah 126 

Toasts  and  Sentiments   , 220 


Hyland's  Mammoth  Hibernian  Songster. 


NATIVE   MUSIC. 

O,   native  music,   beyond  comparing, 

The  sweetest  far  on  the  ear  that  falls, 
Thy  gentle  numbers,  the  heart  remembers, 

Thy  strains  enchain  us  in  tender  thralls; 
Thy  tones   endearing,   or  sad  or  cheering, 

The  absent  soothe  on  a  foreign  strand. 
Ah,  who  can  tell  what  a  holy  spell 

Is  in   the  songs  of  our  native   land! 
The  proud  and  lowly,  the  pilgrim  holy, 

The  lover  kneeling   at  Beauty's  shrine, 
The  bard  who  dreams  by  the  haunted  streams — 

All,   all,  are  touch'd  by  thy  powers  divine; 
The    captive    cheerless,    the    soldier    fearless, 

The   mother  taught  by  nature's  hand, 
Her  babe  when  weeping  will  lull  to  sleeping 

By  some  sweet  song  of  our  native  land. 


AILEEN,  MAVOURNEEN. 

He  tells  me  he  loves  me,  and  can  I  believe 

The  heart  he  has  won  he  can  wish  to  deceive, 

Forever  and  always  his  sweet  words  to  me, 

Are  Aileen,   mavourneen,  acushlamachree. 

Last  night  when  we  parted,  his  gentle  good-by, 

A  thousand  times  said,  and  each  time  with  a  sigh, 

And  still  the  same  sweet  words  he  whispered  to  me, 

My  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushlamachree. 

The  friend  of  my  childhood,  the  friend  of  my  youth. 

Whose  heart  is  all  pure,  and  whose  words  are  all  truth 

O,  still  the  same  sweet  words  he  whispered  to  me, 

My  Aileen,   mavourneen,  acushlamachree. 

O,  when  will  the  day  come,  the  dear  happy  day, 

That  a  maiden  may  hear  all  a  lover  can  say, 

And  speak  out  the  words  he  now  whispers  to  me 

My  Aileen,  mavourneen,  acushlamachree. 

COTJLDST   THOU  LOOK   AS  DEAR. 

Couldst  thou  look  as  dear  as  when 

First  I  sighed  for  thee, 
Couldst  thou  make   me   feel  again 
Every  wish  I  breathed  thee  then. 

Oh,  how  blissful  life  would  be! 
Hopes  that  now  beguiling  leave  me, 

Joys  that  lie  in   slumber  cold, 
All   would   wake,    couldst  thou   but   give  m« 

One  dear  smile  like  those  of  old. 
Oh,  there's  nothing  left  us  now, 

But  to  mourn  the  past! 
Vain  was  every  ardent  vow; 
Never  yet  did  Heaven  allow 

Love  so  •warm,  so  wild,  to  last. 
Not  even  hope  could  now  deceive  me— 

Life  itself  looks  dark  and  cold; 
Oh,  thou  never  more  canst  give  me 

One  dear  smile  like  those  of  old! 
7 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

NOREEN. 

Noreen,  darling!  don't  look  so  shy — 
It  kills  me,  that  glance  of  your  eye; 

Oh,  go  where  I  will, 

It  follows  me  still, 
Beaming  bright,    like   a  star  in   the  sky. 

While  pressing  your  hand  yesterday, 
As  idly  we  saunter'd  along, 

Each  word  that  I  wanted  to  say 
Expired  at  the  point  of  my  tongue — 

For  as  in  a  book 

I  read  by  your  look, 

That  you  seem  well  to  know  what  I  mean. 
Yes,  I  love  you,  my  darling  Noreen! 

Noreen!  if  to  love  you  be  wrong, 
The  blame  to  my  heart  doth  belong. 

For  morn,  noon,  and  night, 

You're  all  its  delight, 
And  your  name  the  sweet  theme  of  my  song. 

Then,   darling,   no   longer  delay, 
Your  glances  my  heart  have  undone, 

That  smile  says  what  I  wish'd  to  say, 
To-morrow  we  two  shall  be  one. 

The  priest  and  a  ring, 

Will   best   settle   the  thing, 
And  explain  what  I  really  do  mean. 
Yes,    I   love   you,    my   darling   Noreen! 


THE   MAY-DEW. 

Come  with  me,  love,  I'm  seeking 

A  spell  in   the  young  year's  flowers; 
The  magical   May-dew   is  weeping, 

Its  charm  o'er  the  summer  bow'rs; 
Its  pearls  are  more  precious  than  those  they  flnrl 

In  jewell'd   India's   sea; 
For  the  dew-drops,  love,  might  serve  to  bind 

Thy  heart,  forever,   to  me! 

Oh  come  with  me,  love,  I'm  seeking 
A  spell  in  the  young  year's  flowers; 

The  magical  May-dew  is  weeping 
Its  charms  o'er  the  summer  bow'rs. 

Haste,  or  the  spell  will  be  missing, 

We  seek   in   the    May-dew   now; 
For   soon  the  warm  sun  will  be  kissing 

The  bright  drops  from  blossom  and  bough: 
And  the  charm  is  so  tender  the  May-dew  sheds 

O'er  the_  wild  flowers'   delicate  dyes. 
That  e'en  'at  the  touch  of  the  sunbeam,   'tis  said, 

The  mystical  influence  flies. 
Oh,  come  with  me,  etc. 


I  SEE  THEM   ON  THEIR  WINDING  WAY. 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way, 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play, 
Their  lofty  deeds,  and  daring  high, 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  victory; 
And  waving  arms,  and  banners  bright, 
Are  glancing  in  the  mellow  light. 
They're  lost  and  gone — the  moon   is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast, 
And   fainter,    fainter,    fainter  still, 
The  march  is  rising  o'er  the  hill. 
I  see  them,  &c.   &c. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

Again,   again,    the  pealing   drum, 
The  clashing  horn — they  come,  they  come; 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep, 
In  long  and  glittering  files  they  sweep; 
And  nearer,   nearer,   yet  more  near, 
Their  softened   chorus  meets  the  ear. 
Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way, 
The  trampling  hoofs  brook  no  delay; 
With  thrilling  fife,  and  pealing  drum, 
And    clashing    horn— they    come,    they    come; 
-    I  see  them,   &c.   &c. 


THE  IRISH  HUSSAR. 

In   times   not  very   old, 

There  lived  a  baron  bold, 
Who  kept  a  lovely  daughter  under  bolt  and  bar. 

He   was    naturally   mild, 

Till  he  found  his   only   child 

Had  been  bother'd  and  beguiled 
By  an  Irish  hussar. 

His  castle  wall  was  steep, 

And   the   foss   both   wide   and   deep, 
And  the  lady's  tower  was  lofty,  as  most  ladies'  towws  are: 

But  what  foss  or  rampart  stout, 

E'er  yet   held   young   love  out, 

Or  even  put  to  rout 

A  true   Irish   hussar? 

On   one  wild  and  stormy  night, 

In  that  tower  shone  a  light — 
'Twas  Love's  own  beacon  bright,  high  o'er  the  elemental  war. 

Each  sentry  sought  his  box 

Trusting   all   to   wall   and   locks, 

Little   "drameing"   what  a  fox 
Was  an  Irish  hussar. 

To  the  turret  light,  so  true 

A    pebble   lightly   flew, 
When  the  wakeful  maiden  knew  that  her  lover  was  not  far: 

Back  o'er   the   rampart  wall 

She  flung  a  silken  ball, 

Knowing  well  that  it  must  fall 
Near  her  Irish   hussar. 

Soon,    according  to  her  hope, 

She  drew  back  a  stair  of  rope, 
Which  her  own  fair  hands  soon  fasten'd  to  her  window  bar; 

Whilst  she  heard  a  voice  below 

Whisper,    "Wo,    good    Shamroy,   wo. 

Till  she  comes — then  off  I  go, 
Like  an  Irish  hussar." 

Though  the  turret  rose  so  high, 

The  true  lover  soon   drew  nigh, 
When  the  maiden  gave  a  sigh,  to  see  the  ground  so  far: 

"Now,   my  love,  come  down  with  me!" 

"But,"    says   she,    "love,   Where's  your  key?" 

"Hanging  by  my  side,"  cries  he, 
Like  an  Irish  hussar. 

This  light  laugh   soothed  her  fears; 

Soon   she   dried  her  maiden  tears, 
Knowing  well  that  a  faint  heart  would  now  her  fortune  mar. 

Soon  beneath  that  tower  they   stood, 

Where  he  found  his  charger  good. 

That  would  face  both  fire  and  blood 
With  an  Irish  hussar. 

"Now,   mount,    dear  girl,   with  me." 

"O,   la!  sweet  love,"  cries  she, 
"I  looked,  at  least,  to  see  a  coach  or  jaunting  car." 

"Up!  ma  coleen  gra,"  he  cried, 


10  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

"Your  sweet  self  must  learn  to  ride, 
If  you  look  to  be  the  bride 

Of  an  Irish  hussar." 
The  maiden  made  no  more  ado, 
But  en  croupe  full  lightly  flew— 

"And  now,  good  steed,  be  true  in  love  as  you  hav«  bee*  in  war; 
Your  soft  arms  round  me  throw, 
My  own   girl,"   he   cried,    "Just  so; 
Now,  one  kiss— and  off  you  go — whoo! 

Like  an  Irish   hussar." 


TWO  HEADS  ARE  BETTER  THAN  ONE. 

"Sure,   Katty,  you'd  much  better  tarry," 

One  day  said  my  mother  to  me, 
"For  you  still  over  young  are  to  marry. 

My  darling,  to  that  you'll  agree." 
"Oh!  mother,  your  frown  sorely  tries  me, 

Why  should  I  not  do  as  you've  done?" 
"Sure,"  said  she,  "I  had  none  to  advise  me, 

And  two  heads  are  better  than  one." 
Then  who  should  I  meet  but  dear  Larry, 

I  told  him  the  worst  of  my  fears; 
"It's   my   mother  that  won't   let   me   marry," 

Said  I,  nearly  choked   oy  my  tears: 
"Och!  your  mother's  advice  don't  be  dreading, 

Sure,   it's  just  the  right  thing  to  be  done. 
For  the  best  of  all  reasons  for  wedding 

Is — that  two   heads  are  better  than   one." 
To  my  mother  I  went  the  next  morning, 

I  blushed  as  I  showed  her  the  ring, 
"So  it's  all  my  advice  you've  been  scorning!" 

"Sure,   mother,   it's  no   such   a  thing." 
"Larry  said  that  you  never  could  scold  me. 

For  but  doing  what  others  have  done, 
And   besides   we've  but   proved   what   you   told  me, 

That  two  heads  are  better  than  one!" 


ADIEU!    MY    NATIVE    LAND,    ADIEU! 

Adieu,  my  native  land  adieu, 

The   vessel    spreads  her   swelling   sails; 
Perhaps  I  never  more  may  view 

Your   fertile   fields,    your   flow'ry   dales. 
Delusive  hope  can  charm  no  more, 

Far  from  the  faithless  maid  I  roam; 
Unfriended   seek  some  foreign  shore, 

Unpitied  leave  my  native  home. 

Adieu,  my  native,  &c. 

Farewell,  dear  village,   oh,  farewell, 

Soft  on  the  gale  thy  murmur  dies, 
I  hear   thy   solemn   evening  bell, 

Thy  spires  yet  glad  my  aching  eyes. 
Though   frequently  falls   the  dazzling  tear, 

I  scorn   to  shrink   from  fate's  decree; 
And  think  not,  cruel  maid,  that  e'er 

I'd  heave  another  sigh  for  thee. 

Adieu,  my  native,   &c. 

In  vain  through   shades  of  frowning  night, 

Mine  eyes  thy  rocky  coast  explore; 
Deep  sinks  the  fiery  orb  of  light, 

I  view  thy  beacon  now  no  more. 
Rise!   billows,    rise!   blow,    hollow   winds! 

Nor  night,   nor  storms,  nor  death  I  fear; 
Unfriended  bear  me  hence,  to  find, 

The  peace  which  fate  denies  me  here. 
Adieu,  my  native,   &c. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

WE  HAVE  LIVED  AND  LOVED  TOGETHER. 

We  have  lived  and  loved  together, 

Thro'  many  changing  years, 
We   have   shared    each    other's   gladness, 

And  wept  each  other's  tears. 
I  have  never  known  a  sorrow, 

That  was  long  unsoothed  by  thee, 
For  thy  smile  can  make  a  summer, 

Where  winter  else  would  be. 

Like  the  leaves  that  fall  around  us 

In   autumn's   fading   hours, 
Are  the  traitor  smiles  that  darken, 

When  the  cloud  of  sorrow  low'rs 
And  tho'  many  such  we've  known,  love, 

Too  prone,  alas!  to  range, 
We  both  can  speak  of  one  love, 

Whom  time  could  never  change. 

We  have  lived  and  loved  together, 

Thro'   many  changing  years, 
We   have    shared    each    other's    gladness, 

And   wept  each  other's  tears. 
And  let  us  hope  the  future, 

As  the  past  has  been,  will  be, 
I  will  share  with  thee  thy  sorrows, 

And  thou  thy  joys  with  me. 


WHEN  TWILIGHT  DEWS. 

When  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  lea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star,  whose  beam  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou,  too,  on  that  orb  so  dear, 

Ah,  dost  thou  gaze  at  even; 
And  think,  tho'  lost  forever  here, 

Thou'lt  yet  be  mine  in  heaven. 

There's  not  a  garden-walk  I  tread, 

There's  not  a  flower  I  see,  love, 
But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that's  fled, 

Some  joy  I've  lost  with  thee,  love. 
And  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near, 

When  friends  and  foes  forgiven, 
The  pains,  the  ills  we've  wept  thro'  here 

May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven. 


LARRY  M'HALE. 

O!  Larry  M'Hale  he  had   little  to  fear. 
And  never  could  want  when  the  crops  didn't  fall, 

He'd  a  house  and  demense,  and  eight  hundred  a  year. 
And  a  heart  for  to  spend  it,  had  Larry  M'Hale! 

The  soul  of  a  party,  the  life  of  a  feast, 
An  illigant  song  he  could  sing,  I'll  be  bail; 

He  would  ride  with  the  rector,  and  drink  with  the  priest, 
O!  the  broth  of  a  boy  was  old  Larry  M'Hale. 

It's  little  he  cared  for  the  judge  or  recorder, 
His  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a  jail; 

With  a  cruel  four-pounder,  he  kept  all  in  great  order, 
He'd  murder  the  country,  would  Larry  M'Hale. 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

He'd  a  blunderbuss,  too;  of  horse  pistols  a  pair; 

But  his  favorite  weapon  was  always  a  flail; 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  he'd  empty  a  fair, 

For  he  handled  it  neatly,  did  Larry  M'Hale. 
His  ancestors  were  kings,  before  Moses  was  born, 

His  mother  descended  from  great  Grana  Uaile; 
He  laughed  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenchs  to  scorn. 

They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old  Larry  M'Hale". 
He  sat  down  every  day  to  a  beautiful  dinner, 

With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a  tail; 
And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  O!  the  devil  a  thinner 

Could  law,  or  the  sheriff,  make  Larry  M'Hale. 
With  a  larder  supplied,  and  a  cellar  well  stored, 

None  lived  half  so  well,  from  Fair-Head  to  Kinsale, 
As  he  piously  said,   "I've  a  plentiful  board, 

And  the  Lord  he  is  good  to  old  Larry  M'Hale." 
So  fill  up  your  glass,  and  a  high  bumper  give  him; 

It's  little  we'd  care  for  the  tithes  or  repale; 
For  ould  Erin  would  be  a  fine  country  to  live  in, 

If  we  only  had  plenty,  like  Larry  M'Hale. 


THE   BANSHEE. 

The  day   was   declining, 

The  dark  night  drew  near, 
And  the  old  Lord  grew  sadder, 

And  paler  with   fear. 
Come,   listen,  my  daughter, 

Come    nearer — oh!    near, 
It's   the  wind    or  the   water 

That  sighs  in  my  ear. 

Not  the  wind  nor  the  water 

Now  stirr'd   the  night,  air, 
But  a  warning   far  sadder — 

The  banshee  was  there. 
Now  rising,  now  swelling, 

On  the  night  wind  it  bore 
One  cadence,  still  telling, 

I  want  thee,  Rossmore! 

And  then  fast  came  his  breath, 

And  more  fix'd  grew  his  eye, 
And  the  shadow  of  death 

Told  his  hour  was  nigh. 
Ere  the  dawn  of  that  morning 

The  struggle  was  o'er, 
For  when  thrice  came  the  warning- 

A  corpse  was  Rossmore! 


IT'S   LITTLE  FOR   GLORY  I  CARE. 

It's  little  for  glory  I  care; 

Sure,   ambition   is   only   a  fable; 
I'd  as  soon  be  mystlf  as  Lord  Mayor, 

With  lashings  of  drink  on  the  table. 
I  like  to   lie  down   in  the  sun, 

And   drame  when  my  faytures  is  scorching:, 
That  when   I'm  too  ould  for  more  fun, 

Why,  I'll  marry  a  wife  with  a  fortune. 

And,  in  winter,  with  bacon  and  eggs, 

And  a  place  at  the  turf-fire  basking, 
Sip   my  punch,   as  I   roasted  my   legs, 

Oh!  the  devil  a  more  I'd  be  asking. 
For  I  haven't  a  janius  for  work — 

It  was   never  the   gift  of  the  Bradys — 
But  I'd  make  a  most  illigant  Turk, 

For  I'm  fond  of  tobacco  and  ladies. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  13 

NOW  CAN'T  YOU  BE  AISY. 

Oh!    what  stories  I'll  tell  when  my  sojering's  o'er, 

And  the  gallant  Fourteenth  is  disbanded; 
Not  a  drill  nor  parade  will  I  hear  of  no  more, 

When  safely  in   Ireland   I'm   landed. 
With  the  blood  that  I  spilt— the  Frenchmen  I  kilt, 

I'll  drive  all  the  girls  half  crazy; 
And  some  'cute  one  will  cry,  with  a  wink  of  her  eye, 

"Mr.  Free,  now — why  can't  you  be  aisy?" 
I'll  tell  how  we  routed  the  squadrons  in  fight, 

And  destroyed  them  all  at  "Talavera," 
And  then  I'll  just  add  how  we  finished  the  night, 

In  learning  to  dance  the  "Bolero;" 
How  by  the  moonshine  we  drank  raal  wine, 

And  rose  next  day  fresh  as  a  daisy; 
Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a  look  mighty  sly, 

"Arrah,  Mickey— now  can't  you  be  aisy?" 
I'll  tell  how  the  nights  with  Sir  Arthur  we  spent, 

Around  a  big  fire  in  the  air,  too, 
Or  may  be  enjoying  ourselves  in  a  tent, 

Exactly  like  Donnybrook  fair,  too; 
How  he'd  call  out  to  me,  "Pass  the  wine,  Mr.  Free, 

For  you're  a  man  never  is   lazy!" 
Then  some  one  will  cry,  with  a  wink  of  her  eye, 

"Arrah,  Mickey,  dear— can't  you  be  aisy?" 
I'll  tell,  too,  the  longs  years  in  fighting  we  passed, 

Till   Mounseer  asked  Bony  to  lead  him; 
And  Sir  Arthur,  grown  tired  of  glory  at  last, 

Begged  of  one  Mickey  Free  to  succeed  him. 
But,  "acushla,"  says  I,  "the  truth  is,  I'm  shy! 

There's   a  lady  in   Ballynacrazy! 
And  I  swore  on  the  book — "  she  gave  me  a  look, 

And  cried,  "Mickey — now  can't  you  be  aisy?" 


I  DREAMED  THAT  OLD  IRELAND  WAS  FREE. 

One  night  as  I  slumbered  in  sweet,  peaceful  rest, 

Tired  out  from  a  long  day  of  toll, 
My  thoughts,  like  a  bird,  over  the  ocean's  white  crest, 

Wandered  back  to  my  own  native  soil; 
But  a  great  change  had  come  since  the  time  when  a  boy, 

I  played  'round  my  old  mother's  knee, 
And  my  heart  seemed  to  leap  in  my  bosom  with  joy, 

For  I  dreamed  that  old  Ireland  was  free. 
CHORUS.— The  days  of  her  freedom  at  last  had  a  word, 

The  time  that  we  all  long  to  see; 
For  which  our  great  ancestors  nobly  had  strove — 

I  dreamed  that  old  Ireland  was  free. 
I  thought  the  chains  that  had  bound  her  were  broke, 

And  the  dear  little  isle  of  my  birth 
At  last  from  her  slumbers  of  years  had  awoke, 

And  again  was  a  power  on  earth; 
The  green  flag  of  Erin  was  proudly  unfurled 

Over  the  emerald  isle  of  the  sea, 
And  loudly  announced  to  the  wondering  world, 

At  last  dear  old  Ireland  was  free. 

The  days  of  her  freedom,  etc. 
I  awoke  and  found  that  'twas  only  a  dfeam, 

A  dream  that  had  fled  with  the  night, 
For  when  through  the  window  the  morning  sunbeam 

Shone  in  my  visions  took  flight; 
I  sank  on  my  knees  by  my  bedside  to  pray, 

That  the  time  may  not  far  distant  be 
When  my  vision  shall  come  in  the  broad  light  of  day, 

And  will  welcome  old  Ireland  free. 

The  days  of  her  freedom,  etc. 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  LIGHT   GTJITAK. 

Oh!   leave   the  gay   and   festive   scenes, 

The  halls  of  dazzling  light, 
And  rove  with  me  through  forests  green, 

Beneath  the  silent  night; 
Then  as  we  watch  the  ling'ring  rays, 

That   shine    through  every  star, 
I'll  sing  a  song  of  happier  days, 

And  strike  the  light  guitar. 
I'll  sing,  &c. 

I'll  tell  you  how  the  maiden  wept, 

When   her   true   knight   was   slain, 
And  how  her  broken  spirit  slept, 

And   never  woke  again; 
I'll  tell  thee  how  the  steed  drew  nigh, 

And   left  his   lord   afar, 
But  if  my  tale  should  make  thee  sigh, 

I'll  strike  the  light  guitar. 

But  if  my  tale,  &c. 

ISLE   OF  BEAUTY,   FAKE  THEE  WELL. 

Shades  of  ev'ning  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave   our  lonely  bark  awhile, 
Morn,   alas!   will   not   restore   us, 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle; 
Still   my  fancy   can   discover, 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell, 
Darker  shadows   round   us   hover, 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well. 

'Tis  the  hour  when  happy  faces, 

Smile  around  the  taper's   light; 
Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places? 

Who  will  sing  our  songs  to-night? 
Through  the  mists  that  float  above  us 

Faintly   sounds   the   vesper  bell; 
Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  u«, 

Breathing  fondly,  fare  thee  well. 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And    my    eye    in    vain    is   seeking, 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon; 
What  would   I  not  give  to  wander, 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell, 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well! 


THE   VOICE   OF  HER   I  LOVE. 

How  sweet  at  close  of  silent  eve 

The  harp's  responsive  sound; 
How  sweet  the   vows  that  ne'er  deceive, 

And  deeds  by   virtue  crown'd! 
How  sweet  to  sit  beneath  a  tree 

In  some  delightful  grove; 
But,  oh!  more  soft,  more  sweet  to  me. 

The  voice  of  her  I  love. 

Whene'er  she  Joins  the  village  train 

To  hail   the  new-born   day, 
Mellifluous  notes  compose  each  strain 

Which  zephyrs  waft  away. 
The  frowns  of  fate  I'll  calmly  bear. 

In  humble  sphere  to  move; 
Content  and  bless'd  whene'er  I  hear 

The  TOiM  of  k»r  I  leve. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  15 

MY  HEART'S  IN  OLD  IRELAND. 

My  bark  on  the  billow  dash'd  gloriously  on, 
And  glad  were  the  notes  of  the  sailor-boy's  song; 
Yet  sad  was  my  bosom  and  bursting  with  woe, 
For  my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go, 

Oh!    my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go. 
More  dear  than  the  flowers  that  Italy  yields, 
Are  the  red-breasted  daisies  that  spangle  thy  fields. 
The  shamrock,  the  hawthorn,  the  white  blossom  sloe, 
For  my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go. 

Oh!    my  heart's,  etc. 

The  shores  they  look  lovely,  yet  cheerless  and  vain 
Bloom  the  lilies  of  France,  and  the  olives  of  Spain; 
When  I  think  of  the  fields  where  the  wild  daisies  grow, 
Then  my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go, 

Oh!    my  heart's,  etc. 

The  lilies  and  roses  abandon  the  plains, 
Though  the  summer's  gone  by,  still  the  shamrock  remains, 
Like  a  friend  in  misfortune  it  blossoms  o'er  the  snow; 
For  my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go, 

Oh!    my  heart's,  etc. 
I  sigh  and  I  vow,  if  e'er  I  get  home, 
No  more  from  my  dear  native  cottage  I'll  roam; 
The  harp  shall  resound,  and  the  goblet  shall  flow, 
For  my  heart's  in  old  Ireland  wherever  I  go, 

Oh!    my  heart's,  etc. 


LIMERICK   IS  BEAUTIFUL. 

Limerick    is    beautiful, 

As    everybody    knows, 
The    river    Shannon,    full    of    fish, 

Through   that    city    flows; 
But  'tis  not  the  river  or  the  flsh, 

That   weighs   upon   my  mind. 
Nor   with   the   town   of   Limerick 

I've    any    fault   to   find. 

Ochone,  ochon*. 

The  girl   I  love  is  beautiful, 

And  soft-eyed  as  the  fawn, 
She  lives  in  Garryowen, 

And  is  called  the  Colleen   Bawn. 
And  proudly  as  that  river  flows 

Through   that  famed   city, 
As  proudly   and  without   a  word 

That  colleen  goes  by  me. 

Ochone,  ochone. 

If  I  was  made  the  Emperor 

Of  Russia  to   command, 
Or   Julius   Caesar,   or   the 

Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  land, 
I'd  give  my  plate  and  golden  store, 

I'd  give  up  my  army, 
The  horses,  the  rifles,  and  the  foot, 

And   the   Royal    Artillery. 

Ochone,  ochou*. 

I'd  give  the  crown  from  off  my  head, 

My  people  on  their  knees, 
I'd   give   the  fleet  of  sailing  ships 

Upon  the  briny  seas; 
A  beggar  I  would  go  to  bed, 

And  happy   rise  at   dawn, — 
If  by  my  side  for  my  sweet  bride 

I  had  feutid  my  Colleen  Bawn. 

e,  •ekon«. 


16  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MOLLY  CAREW. 

Och  hone!  and  what  will  I  do? 
Sure  my  love  is  all  crost 
Like   a  bud  in   the   frost; 

And  there's  no  use  at  all  in  my  going  to  bed, 
For  'tis  dhrames  and  not  sleep  that  comes  into  my  head; 
And   'tis  all  about  you, 
My  sweet  Molly  Carew — 
And  indeed   'tis  a  sin  and  a  shame! 
You're  complater  than   Nature 
In    every    feature ; 
The  snow  can't  compare 
With  your   forehead  so   fair, 

And  I  rather  would  see  just  one  blink  of  your  eye 
Than  the  prettiest  star  that  shines  out  of  the  sky, 
And  by   this  and   by  that, 
For   the   matter   o'    that. 
You're  more  distant  by  far  than  that  same! 
Och  hone!    weirasthru! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Och  hone!    but  why  should  I  spake 
Of  your  forehead  and  eyes, 
When  your  nose  it  defies 

Paddy  Blake,  the  schoolmaster,  to  put  it  in  rhyme. 
Though  there's  one  Burke,  he  says,  that  would  call  it  snub  lime: 
And  then   for  your   cheek! 
Troth,    'twould   take  him   a  week 
Its  beauties  to  tell,   as  he'd  rather. 
Then    your    lips,    oh,    machree! 

In   their   beautiful    glow, 
They  a  pattern  might  be 
For  the  cherries  to  grow. 

'Twas   an   apple  that  tempted  our  mother,   we  know, 
For  apples  were  scarce,  I  suppose,  long  ago; 
But  at  this  time  o'  day, 
'Pon  my  conscience,  I'll  say, 
Such  cherries  might  tempt  a  man's  father! 

Och  hone!     weirasthru! 
I'm  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Och  hone!    by  the  man  in  the  moon, 

You  taze  all  ways 

That  a   woman   can   plaze, 

For  you   dance  twice  as  high  with  that  thief,  Pat  Magee, 
As  when  you  take  share  of  a  jig,  dear,  with  me. 

Though  the  piper  I  bate, 

For  fear  the  old  chate 
Wouldn't  play  you  your  favorite  tune; 

And    when   you're    at  mass. 

My  devotion  you  crass, 

For  'tis  thinking  of  you 

I    am,    Molly    Carew, 

While  you  wear,  on  purpose,  a  bonnet  so  deep 
That  I  can't  at  your  sweet  purty  face  get  a  peep. 

Oh,    lave    off   that   bonnet, 

Oh   else   I'll   lave  on   it 
The  loss  of  my  wandherin'  sowl. 

Och,  hone!    weirasthru! 

Och  hone!    like   an   owl, 
Day  is  night,  dear,  to  me,  without  you! 

Och  hone!    don't  provoke  me  to  do  it; 

For  there's  girls  by  the  score 

That   loves   me— and  more, 

And  you'd  look  very  quare  if  some  morning  you'd  meet 
My  wedding  all  marching  in  pride  down  the  street, 

Troth,  you'd  open  your  eyes, 

And  you'd  die  with  surprise 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  17 

To  think  'twasn't  you  was  come  to  it! 

And  faith,   Katty  Naile, 

And  her  cow,   I   go  bail, 

Would  jump,   if  I'd  say, 

"Kitty  Naile,   name  the  day." 

And  though  you're  fair  and  fresh  as  a  morning  in  May, 
While  she's  short  and  dark  like  a  cold  winter's  day, 

Yet  if  you  don't  repent 

Before  Easter,  when  Lent 
Is  over,  I'll  marry  for  spite! 

Och  hone!     weirasthru! 

And  when  I  die  for  you, 
My  ghost  will  haunt  you  every  night! 


ACUSHLA  GAL  MACHREE. 

The  long,  long  wished-for  hour  has  come, 

But  come,  asthore,  in  vain, 
And  left  thee  but  the  wailing  hum 

Of  sorrow  and  of  pain; 
My  light  of  life,  my  only  love, 

Thy  portion  sure  must  be 
Man's  scorn  below,  God's  wrath  above — 

Acushla  gal  machree. 

'Twas  told  of  thee  the  world  around, 

Was  hoped  for  thee  by  all, 
That  with  one  gallant  sunward  bound 

Thou'd  burst  long  ages'  thrall; 
Thy  fate  was  tried,  alas!  and  those 

Who  periled  all  for  thee 
Were  cursed  and  branded  as  thy  foes, 

Acushla  gal  machree. 

What  fate  is  thine,  unhappy  isle, 

That  e'en  the  trusted  few 
Should  pay  thee  back  with  fraud  and  guile 

When  most  they  should  be  true? 
'Twas  not  thy  strength  or  courage  failed 

Nor  those  whose  souls  were  free; 
By  moral'  force  wert  thou  betrayed, 

Acushla  gal  machree. 


0,  ERIN,  MY   COUNTRY! 

O,  Erin,  my  country!    though  strangers  may  roam 
The  hills  and  the  valleys  I  once  called  my  own, 
Thy  lakes  and  thy  mountains  no  longer  I  see, 
Yet  warmly  as  ever  my  heart  beats  for  thee. 

O  cushlamachree, 

My   heart  beats   for  thee; 

Erin!    Erin!    my  heart  beats  for  thee. 

Though  years  have  rolled  over  since  last  time  we  met, 
Yet  lived  I  a  thousand  I  could  not  forget 
The  true  hearts  that  loved  me,  the  bright  eyes  that  shone 
Like  stars  in  the  heavens,  of  days  that  are  gone. 

O  cushlamachree,  etc. 

Dear  home  of  my  youth,  I  may  see  thee  no  more; 
Yet  memory  treasures  the  bright  days  of  yore, 
And  my  heart's  latest  wish,  the  last  sigh  of  my  breast, 
Shall  be  given  to  thee,  dearest  land  of  the  west. 

O  cushlamachree,  etc. 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

AS  SLOW  OUR  SHIP. 

As  slow  our  ship   her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  looked  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loath  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us, 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us. 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanished  years 

We  talk,  with  joyous  seeming— 
With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 

So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming; 
While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,    sweet's   the  cup   that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us! 

And  when,   in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting — 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  naught  but  love  is  wanting; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss, 

If  heaven  had  but  assigned  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  this, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us! 

As  travelers  oft  look  back  at  eve, 

When  eastward  darkly  going. 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave, 

Still   faint  behind   them   glowing — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consigned  us, 
We  turn  to   catch   one   fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 


A  PLACE   IN  THY   MEMORY,   DEAREST. 

A  place  in  thy  memory,   dearest, 

Is  all  that  I  claim, 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,   nearer, 

Another  may  win  and  wear; 
I   care  not   though  he   be   dearer, 

If  I   am  remembered  there. 

Remember   me — not    as    a    lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd — 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost. 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see, 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

Oh,  dearest!  remember  me. 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  dearest, 

Couldst  thou  smile  on  me; 
I   would  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee! 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming, 

That  never -must  burst   upon   thine; 
And   Heaven,    that   made   thee   all   blooming, 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me,   then— Oh,    remember 

My   calm,    light-love; 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 
My  love  may  prove.  v 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  19 

That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweat, 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A   smile   and   kind  look  when   we  mwt, 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 

ARRANMORE. 

Oh!  Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 

How  oft  I  dream  of  thee; 
And  of  those  days  when  by  thy  shore 

I  wandered  young  and  free. 
Full   many  a  path  I've  tried  since  then. 

Through   pleasure's  flow'ry  maze. 
But  ne'er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

I  felt  in  those  sweet  days. 
How  blithe  upon  thy  breezy  cliff 

At  sunny  morn  I've  stood, 
With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

That  danced  along  thy  flood; 
Or  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 

With  daylight's  parting  wing, 
Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light, 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing. 
That  Eden  where  th'  Immortal  brave 

Dwell  in  a  land  serene, 
Whose   bowers   beyond  the  shining  wave 

At  sunset  oft  are  seen; 
Ah,  dream  too  full  of  saddening  truth! 

Those   mansions   o'er  the   main 
Are  like  the  hopes  I  built  in  youth, 

As  sunny  and  as  vain. 


AM  I  NOT  FONDLY? 

Thou,  thou  reign'st  in  this  bosom, 

There,  there,   hast  thou  thy  throne; 
Thou,  thou  knowest  that  I  love  thee — 

Am  I  not  fondly  thine  own? 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  am  I  not  fondly  thine  own? 
Then,   then,  e'en  as  I  love  thee, 

Say,   say,  wilt  thou  love  me? 
Thoughts,  thoughts,  tender  and  true,  love, 

Say,  wilt  thou  cherish  for  me? 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  say,  wilt  thou  cherish  for  me? 
Speak,   speak,  love,  I  implore  thee, 

Say,  say,  hope  shall  be  thine, 
Thou,   thou  know'st  that  I  love  thee, 

Say,  but  that  thou  wilt  be  mine! 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  say  but  thou  wilt  be  mine! 

BELIEVE  ME,   IF  ALL   THOSE   ENDEARING. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms. 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 
It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 


20 


HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 


O'Donnell  Aboo. 


N?16. 


Tempo  di  Marcia. 


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HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  21 

O'DONNELL  ABOO— Concluded. 
Princely  O'Neill  to  our  aid  is  advancing, 

With  many  a  chieftain  and  warrior-clan! 
A  thousand  proud  steeds  in  his  vanguard  are  prancing, 
'Neath  the  borders  brave  from  the  banks  of  the  Baun. 
Many  a  heart  shall  quail 
Under  its  coat  of  mail; 
Deeply  the  merciless  foeman  shall  rue, 
When  on  his  ear  shall  ring, 
Borne  on  the  breeze's  wing, 
Tyrconnell's  dread  war  cry — O'Donnell  Aboo! 


A  SWEET  IRISH   GIRL. 

If  they  talk  about  ladies,  I'll  tell  them  the  plan 

Of  myself— to  be  sure,   I'm  a  nate  Irishman; 

There  is  neither  sultana  nor  foreign  ma'mselle 

That  has  charms  to  please  me,  or  can  coax  me  so  well 

As  the  sweet  Irish   girl,   so  charming  to  see; 

Och!   a  tight  Irish  girl   is  the  darling  for  me. 

And   sing  filliloo,   fire  away,   frisky  she'll  be, 

Och!  a  sweet  Irish  girl  is  the  darling  for  me: 

For    she's    pretty, 

She's  witty, 

She's  hoaxing, 

And  coaxing, 

She's  smiling, 
Beguiling  to  see,  to  see: 

She  rattles, 

She  prattles, 

She  dances 

And  prances, 

Och!  a  sweet  Irish  girl  is  the  darling  for  me. 
Now,  some  girls  they  are  little,  and  some  they  are  tall, 
Och,   others  are  big,   sure,  and  others  are  small; 
And  some  that  are  teasing,  are  bandy,  I  tell; 
Still  none  can  please  me,  or  can  coax  me  so  well 
As  the  dear  Irish  girl,   so  charming  to  see; 
Och!  a  sweet  Irish  girl  is  the  darling  for  me. 


ANGELS'   WHISPER. 

A  baby  was  sleeping, 

Its   mother  was  weeping, 
For  her  husban'    was  far  on  the  wide,  raging  sea, 

And   the  tempest  was   swelling 

'Round  the  fisherman's  dwelling, 
And  she  cried,  "Dermont,  darling,  oh!  come  back  to  me!" 

Her  beads  while  she  number'd, 

The  baby   still   slumber'd, 
And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her  knee; 

"Oh!  bless'd  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  to  thee. 

"And  while  they  are  keeping 

Bright  watch  o'er  thy  sleeping, 
Oh!  pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me— 

And   say  thou  wouldst   rather 

They'd  watch  o'er  thy  father, 
For  I  know  that  the  angels  are  whispering  with  thee." 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 

Saw   Dermont   returning, 
And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe's  father  to  see, 

And   closely   caressing 

Her   child,    with   a   blessing. 
Said.  "I  knevy  that  the  angels  were  whispering  with  thee. 


22  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

AVENGING  AND  BRIGHT. 

Avenging  and  bright  fall  the  swift  sword  of  Erin 

On  him   who  the  brave  sons  of  Usna  betrayed! 
For  every  fond  eye  he  hath  wakened  a  tear  in, 

A.  drop   from  his   heart-wounds  shall  weep   o'er  her  blade! 
By  the  red  cloud  that  hung  over  Conor's  dark  dwelling, 

When  Ulad's  three  champions  lay   sleeping  in  gore — 
By  the  billows  of  war,  which  so  often,  high  swelling, 

Have  wafted  these  heroes  to  victory's  shore— 
We  swear  to  revenge  them! — no  joy  shall  be  tasted, 

The  harp  shall  be  silent,  the  maiden  unwed. 
Our  halls  shall  be  mute,  and  our  fields  shall  lie  wasted, 

Till  vengeance  is  wreaked  on  the  murderer's  head! 
Yes,  monarch!   though  sweet  are  our  home  recollections, 

Though  sweet  are  the  tears  that  from  tenderness  fall; 
Though  sweet  are  our  friendships,  our  hopes,  our  affections. 

Revenge  on  a  tyrant  is  sweetest  of  all! 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightnings  showed  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who   lost  that  dreadful  day 

Stood,   few  and  faint,   but  fearless  still! 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 

Forever   dimmed,    forever   crossed — 
Oh,   who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honor's  lost! 
The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream 

And   valor's   task   moved    slowly   by. 
While  mute  they  watched,   till  morning's  beam 

Should   rise  and  give   them   light  to  die. 
There's  yet  a  world  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss; 
If  death  that  world's  bright   opening  be, 

Oh,  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this? 

AS  A  BEAM  O'ER  THE  FACE  OF  THE  WATERS  MAY 

GLOW. 

As  a  beam  o'er  the  face  of  the  waters  may  glow, 
While  the  tide  runs  in  darkness  and  coldness  below, 
So  the  cheek  may  be   tinged  with  a  warm,   sunny   smile, 
Though  the  cold  heart  to  ruin  runs  darkly  the  while. 
One   fatal   remembrance,    one   sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes, 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  or  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  has  no  balm  and  affliction  no  sting; 
Oh,  this  thought  in  the  midst  of  enjoyment  will  stay. 
Like  a  dead,   leafless  branch  in  the  summer's  bright  ray 
The  beams  of  the  warm  sun  play  round  it  in  vain; 
It  may  smile  in  his  light,  but  it  blooms  not  again. 

AT  THE  MID  HOUR  OF  NIGHT. 

^.t  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in  thine  eye; 
And   I  think  oft,   if  spirits  can   steal  from  the  regions  of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come  to  me  there, 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remembered,  even  in  the  sky! 
Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  'twas  once  such  pleasure  to  hear, 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed  like  one  on  the  ear; 
And,   as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison  rolls, 
I  think  of  my  love!  'tis  thy  voice,  from  the  kingdom  of  souls, 
Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so  dear. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

COME  O'ER  THE  SEA. 

Come  o'er  the  sea,  maiden,   with  me — 

Mine  through  sunshine,  storm,  and  snows; 
Seasons  may  roll,  but  the  true  soul 

Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes. 
Let  Fate  frown  on,  so  we  love  and  part  not; 
"Tis  life  where  thou  art,   'tis  death  where  thou  art  not; 
Then  come  o'er  the  sea,  maiden,  with  me — 

Come  wherever  the  wild  wind  blows; 
Seasons  may  roll,  but  the  true  soul 

Burns  the  same,  where'er  it  goes. 
Was  not  the  sea  for  the  free. 

Land  for  courts  and  chains  alone? 
Here  we  are  slaves,   but,  on  the  waves, 

Love  and  liberty's  all  our  own; 
No  eye  to  watch,  and  no  tongue  to  wound  us, 
All  earth  forgot,  and  all  heaven  around  us — 
Then  come  o'er  the  sea,  maiden,  with   m«, 

Mine  through  sunshine,    storm,    and   snows; 
Seasons  may  roll,  but  the  true  soul 

Burns  the  same  where'er  it  goes. 


BEAUTIFUL  ISLE  OF  THE  SEA! 

Beautiful  Isle  of  the  Sea 

Smile  on  the  brow  of  the  waters! 
Dear  are  your  mem'ries  to  me, 

Sweet  as  the  songs  of  your  daughters, 
Over  your  mountains  and  vales, 

Down  by  each  murmuring  river, 
Cheer'd  by  the  flow'r-loving  gales, 

Oh!  could  I  wander  for  ever! 
Land  of  the  True  and  the  Old, 

Hflme  ever  dear  unto  me — 
Fountain  of  pleasure  untold, 

Beautiful  Isle  of  the  Sea! 
Fountain  of  pleasure  untold, 

Beautiful,   beautiful   Isle   of  the   Sea! 

Oft,  on  your  shell-girdled  shore, 

Ev'ning  has  found  me  reclining, 
Visions  of  youth  dreaming  o'er, 

Down  where  the  light-house  was  shining, 
Far  from  the  gladness  you  gave, 

Far  from  all  joys  worth  possessing, 
Still,   o'er   the   lone,    weary   wave, 

Comes  to  the  wand'rer  your  blessing! 
Land  of  the  True  and  the  Old, 

Home  ever  dear  unto  me — 
Fountain   of  pleasure  untold, 

Beautiful  Isle  of  the  Sea! 
Fountain   of  pleasure   untold, 

Beautiful,   beautiful   Isle   of  the   Sea! 

COME,   REST   IN   THIS   BOSOM. 

Come,   rest  in  this  bosom,   my  own   stricken   deer; 

Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is  still  here, 

Here  still  is  the  smile  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 

And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh!  what  was  love  made  for,   if  'tis  not  the  same 

Through  joy  and  through  torment,  through  glory  and  shame? 

I  know  not,   I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart — 

I  but  know  that  I  love  thee.  whatever  thou  art! 

Thou  hast  called  me  thy  angel  in  moments  of  bliss, 

And  thy  angel  I'll  be,   'mid  the  horrors  of  this, 

Through  the  furnace,    unshrinking,   thy  steps  to  pursue, 

And  shield  thee,  and  save  thee,   or  perish  there,   too! 


24 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONOE  THRO1  TAJRA'S  HAXU3. 

TKnua  MOO**..  Am.-"GRAMArHKEE.-  Art.  bjr  U.  W.  BUtTB. 

L  Jfclte  mafemy.  grptyyvmdo 


i@ 


p-  n"j:s  / 


^f 


ir 


-^^ 


T^ 


^ 


I.  The    bup      thu  once  through  T»     •     rs's  h»Us  The       sonl          of  mo  .  (to 
J.   Ho   more         tochleto-ud       U    •    dleabrtghtThe  -    tup         of  T»  •   a 

«.»«•»/ 


*    * 


^ 


^ 


-»    j    ir^e-r~r-   |r   '    *  J  ''  J    r  T'    ' 

Row    hugs      u  mote   on     -  T»  -   n'l    willi   As  If     that    sool  were 

The    chord       ••lone  that   break*    at    night.  lu  tale    of       n  «,to 

^=^FfFih  m 


Tfl 


So      sleeps        uie  pride  of         fora  •  er    d«jr«.     So        glo  -  ry'p      ihrtll     la 
fells-  Thua    Free  •  <lom  DOW   M          *el  .  dom  wake» ;  Th«       on  •  IT      throb    (he 


Efel 


-^f-Tf— V 


-riJ-^ — g- 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 


25 


oer.               And  beiuts.     that   once    bc»t    blgti           forpralH.    Now    feel    Uint  pul>« 
gives                  Is    when       wme  beart.      to  •   dig              nwl.  fcratks.  To   show  tb»t    Mill 

•te 

•         "^^1                                       f               fin. 

4      4 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  oe'r, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more  ' 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakee, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Tis  The  Shamrock. 


'Tis  the      iha/D            rock             the                   «him  •  foch          the               th«ro-ror 

J      J    J    J=> 

•m         OMIT  •    ul      MH! 

tJU  Jl  'J      u  J<  JIJ  J  J  JJU   >----.-vg>-  • 

grate    On               InlunTi         hiiu          by    her      marrmmnK   nil*    ih*          o»»m      rod        <•&    b*     «**n 

'Tis  the  shamrock,  the  shamrock,  the  shamrock  im- 
mortal and  green, 

On  Ireland's  hills,  by  her  murmuring  rills, 
The  shamrock  can  be  seen. 


26  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

BY   THAT  LAKE   WHOSE   GLOOMY  SHORE. 

By   that  lake,  whose  gloomy  shore 
Skylark  never  warbles  o'er, 
Where  the  cliff  hangs  high  and  steep 
Young  Saint  Kevin   stole  to  sleep. 
"Here,  at   least,"   he  calmly  said, 
"Woman  ne'er  shall  find  my  bed." 
Ah!  the  good  Saint  little  knew 
What  that  wily  sex  can  do. 
'Twas  from  Kathleen's  eyes  he  flew — 
Eyes  of  most  unholy  blue! 
She  had  loved  him  well  and  long, 
Wished  him  hers,  nor  thought  it  wrong 
Wheresoe'er  the  Saint  would   fly, 
Still  he  heard  her  light  foot  nigh; 
East  or  west,  where'er  he  turned, 
Still  her  eyes  before  him  burned. 
On   the  bold  cliff's  bosom  cast, 
Tranquil  now  he  sleeps  at  last; 
Dreams  of  heaven,  nor  thinks  that  e'er 
Woman's  smile  can  haunt  him  there. 
But  nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  free 
From   her   power,   if   fond   she  be: 
Even  now,  while  calm  he  sleeps, 
Kathleen  o'er  him  leans  and  weeps. 
Fearless  she  had  tracked  his  feet 
To   this   rocky,    wild   retreat; 
And,   when  morning  met  his  view, 
Her  mild  glances  met  it  too. 
Ah!  your  Saints  have  cruel  hearts; 
Sternly  from  his  bed  he  starts, 
And,  with  rude,   repulsive  shock, 
Hurls  her  from  the  beetling  rock! 
Glendalough!  thy  gloomy  wave 
Soon  was  gentle  Kathleen's  grave; 
Soon  the   Saint   (yet,  ah!   too  late) 
Felt  her  love,  and  mourned  her  fate 
When  he  said:  "Heaven  rest  her  sou,l," 
Round  the  lake  light  music  stole; 
And  her  ghost  was  seen  to  glide. 
Smiling,  o'er  the  fatal  tide! 


COME  BACK  TO   ERIN. 

Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen. 

Come  back,   aroon,   to  the  land  of  thy  birth, 
Come   with   the   shamrocks   and   spring-time,    mavourneen, 

And  it's  Killarney  shall  ring  with  our  mirth. 
Sure,  when  we  lent  you  to  beautiful  England, 

Little  we  thought  of  the  lone  winter  days, 
Little  we  thought  of  the  hush  of  the  star  shine 

Over  the  mountains,  the  bluffs  and  the  braes! 

CHORUS.— Come  back  to  Erin,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 
Come  back  again  to  the  land  of  thy  birth, 
Come  back  to  Erin,   mavourneen,   mavourneen, 
And  it's  Killarney  shall  ring  with  our  mirth. 

Over  the  green  sea,  mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

Long  shone  the  white  sail  that  bore  thee  away, 
Riding  the  white  waves,   that  fair  summer  mornin', 

Just  like  a  mayflower  afloat  on  the  bay. 
Oh!  but  my  heart  sank  when  clouds  came  between  us, 

Like  a  gray  curtain  the  rain  falling  down, 
Hid  from  my  sad  eyes  the  path  o'er  the  ocean, 

Far,   far  away  wk«r«  my  colleen  had  flown. 

e«m»  ba«k    to  Brim.   «t«. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

Ob!   may  the  angels,  oh,   wakin'   and  sleepin', 

Watch  o'er  my  bird  in  the  land  far  away! 
And  It's  my  prayer  will  consign  to  their  keepin* 

Care  o'  my  jewel  by  night  and  by  day. 
When  by  the  fireside  I  watch  the  bright  embers, 

Then  all  my  heart  flies  to  England  and  thee, 
Cravin'  to   know  if  my  darlin'   remembers, 

.Or  if  her  thoughts  may  be  crossin'  to  me. 

Come  back  to  Erin,  etc. 


DEAR   HARP   OF   MY   COUNTRY. 

Dear  harp  of  my  country!  in  darkness  I  found  thee; 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long; 
When  proudly,  my  own  island  harp,  I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,   freedom,   and  song! 
The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 

Have  wakened  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill; 
But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 

That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  harp  of  my  country!  farewell  to  thy  numbers— 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine. 
Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 

Have  throbbed  at  our  lay,  'tis  thy  glory  alone; 
I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was  thy  own. 

BEAUTIFUL  ERIN. 

Beautiful  Erin!   I  leave  thy  shore, 

For  a  home  far  over  the  sea; 
But  where   Niagara's  waters  roar, 

This  heart  still   will  beat  for  thee. 
In  fancy  I'll  roam  the  mountain  side, 

Where  the  homes  of  my  fathers  stand; 
And  I'll  sing  amid  the  dark  woods  wide, 

The  songs  of  my  own  green  land, 

I'll  sing,  I'll  sing  the  songs  of  my  own  green  land, 

I'll  sing,  I'll  sing  the  songs  of  my  own  green  land. 

Breaking  the  bough  with  weary  toil, 

In  that  land   where  plenty   flows, 
I'll  sigh  for  my  own  dear  verdant  soil, 

Where  my  native  shamrock  grows. 
Oh!  beautiful  Erin,  then  fare  thee  well, 

Dear  home  of  my  childhood's  hours! 
No  more  'mid  thy  fond  bright  scenes  I  dwell, 

Farewell  to  thy  fields  and  flowers, 

Farewell!  farewell!  farewell  to  thy  fields  and  flowers, 

Farewell!  farewell!  loved  Erin,  oh,  fare  thee  well. 


BEFORE   THE  BATTLE. 

By   the    hope   within    us    springing, 

Herald   of   to-morrow's   strife; 
By  that  sun,  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains   or    freedom,    death    or   life — 
Oh,   remember,   life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  his  grave, 
Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears. 

Happy   is  he  o'er  whose  decline 

The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine, 
And  light  him  down  the  steep  of  years — 

But  oh,  how  blest  they  sink  to  rest, 

«!••«  their  eyes  on  victory's  breast! 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

O'er  his  watch-fire's  fading  embers 
Now   the  foeman's   cheek   turns   white, 

When  his  heart  that  field  remembers, 
Where  we   tamed  his  tyrant  might! 

Never  let  him  bind  again 

A  chain   like  that  we  broke  from  then. 
Hark!   the  horn  of  combat  calls — 
Ere  the  golden  evening  falls, 

May  we  pledge  that  horn  in  triumph  round! 
Many   a  heart  that  now  beats   high, 
In  slumber  cold  at  night  shall  lie, 

Nor  waken  even  at  victory's  sound — 
But  oh,   how  blest  that1  hero's  sleep, 
O'er  whom  a  wond'ring  world  shall  weep. 


COME,    SEND    ROUND   THE    WINE. 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points  of  belief 

To  simpleton  sages  and  reasoning  fools; 
This  moment's  a  flower  too  fair  and  brief, 

To  be  withered  and  stained  by  the  dust  of  the  schools. 
Your  glass  may  be  purple,   and  mine  may  be  blue, 

But,   while  they  are  filled  from  the  same  bright  bowl 
The  fool   that  would  quarrel  for  difference  of  hue 

Deserves  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o'er  the  soul. 
Shall  I  ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by  my  side 

In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree? 
Shall  I  give  up  the  friend  I  have  valued  and  tried, 

If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with  me? 
From  the  heretic  girl  of  my  soul  should  I  fly 

To  seek  somewhere  else  a  more  orthodox  kiss? 
No — perish  the  hearts  and  the  laws  that  try 

Truth,  valor,  or  love,  by  a  standard  like  this! 


lOVE'S   YOUNG   DREAM. 

Oh!  the  days  are   gone   when  beauty   bright 

My  heart's  chain   wove, 
When  my  dream  of  life  from  morn  till  night 

Was  love,   still   love. 
New  hopes  may  bloom  and  days  may  come 

Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream, 
Oh,   there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in   life 

As  love's  young  dream, 

Tho'  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth's  past, 
Tho'  he  win  the  wise,  who  frowned  before, 

To  smile  at  last; 
He'll  never  meet  a  joy  so  sweet, 

In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His   soul  felt  flame, 
And  at  every  close  she  blushed  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name. 

Oh,  that  fairy  form  is  ne'er  forgot, 

Which  first  love  traced, 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

On  memory's  waste. 
"Twas  odor,  fled  as  soon  as  shed, 

'Twas  morning's  winged  dream, 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream; 
Oh!   'twas  light  that  ne'er  can   shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

COLLEEN    DHAS    CRUTHIN   AMOK 

The  beam  on  the  streamlet  was  playing, 

The  dewdrop  still  hung  on  the  thorn, 
When  a  blooming  young  couple  were  straying, 

To  taste  the  mild  fragrance  of  morn. 
He  sighed  as  he  breathed  forth  his  ditty, 

And  she  felt  her  breast  softly  to  glow: 
"O,  look  on  your  lover  with  pity, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  Cruthin  Amoe." 
"Whilst  green  is  yon  bank's  mossy  pillow, 

Or  evening  shall  weep  the  soft  tear, 
Or  the  streamlet  shall  steal   'neath  the  willow, 

So  long  shall  thy  image  be  dear. 
O,  fly  to  these  arms  for  protection, 

If  pierced  by  the  arrow  of  woe, 
Then  smile  on  my  tender  affection, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  Cruthin  Amoe." 
She  sighed  as  his  ditty  was  ended, 

Her  heart  was  too  full  to  reply; 
Oh,  joy  and  compassion  were  blended 

To  light  the  mild  beam  of  her  eye. 
He  kissed  her  soft  hand:  "What  above  thee 

Could  Heaven,    in   its   bounty,    bestow?" 
He  kissed  her  soft  cheek:  "Oh,  I  love  thee, 

Ma  Colleen  dhas  Cruthin  Amoe." 


DUBLIN   BAY. 

He  sail'd  away  in  a  gallant  bark, 

Roy  Neill  and  his  fair  young  bride, 
He  had   ventur'd  all   in  that  bounding  ark 

That  danced  o'er  the  silver  tide. 
But  his  heart  was  young  and  his  spirit  light, 

And  he  dashed  the  tear  away, 
As  he  watched  the  shore  recede  from  sight, 

Of  his  own  sweet  Dublin  Bay. 
Three  days  they  sail'd,  and  a  storm  arose, 

And  the  lightning  swept  the  deep, 
And  the  thunder-crash  broke  the  short  repose, 

Of  the  weary   sea-boy's  sleep. 
Roy  Neill,  he  clasped  his  weeping  bride, 

And  he  kissed  her  tears  away, 
"Oh,   love,   'twas  a  fatal  hour,"  she  cried, 

"When  we  left  sweet  Dublin   Bay." 
On  the  crowded  deck  of  the  doomed  ship, 

Some  stood  in  their  mute  despair, 
And  some,  more  calm,  with  a  holy  lip, 

Sought  the  God  of  the  storm  in  prayer. 
"She  has  struck  on  the  rock!"  the  seamen  cried, 

In  the  breath  of  their  wild  dismay, 
And  the  ship  went  down  and  the  fair  young  bride 

That   sailed   from    Dublin    Bay. 


DRINK  TO   HER. 

Drink  to   her  who   long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh,  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone; 
By   other  fingers   played, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone! 
Then  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 


SO  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  "Which  might  pass?" 

She  answered,  "He  who  could" 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To    pass — but    'twould    not    do; 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought, 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through, 
So  here's  to  her  who  long 

Hath    waked    the    poet's    sigh, 
The  girl   who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  and  grandeur  shine, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  the  dark  gold-mine. 
But  oh!   the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere; 
Its  native  home's  above, 

Though  women   keep  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

EKIN,   0  EBJN! 

Like  the  bright  lamp  that  shone  in  Kildare's  holy  fane, 

And  burned  through  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm, 
Is  the  heart  that  sorrows  have  frowned  on  in  vain, 

Whose   spirit   outlives   them,    unfading   and   warm. 
Erin,  O  Erin,  thus  bright  through  the  tears 
Of  a  long  night  of  bondage  thy  spirit  appears. 
The  nations  have  fallen,  and  thou  still  art  young; 

Thy  sun  is  but  rising,   when  others'  is  set; 
And  though  slavery's  cloud  o'er  thy  morning  hath  hung, 

The  full  noon  of  freedom  shall  beam  round  thee  yet. 
Erin,  O  Erin,  though  long  in  the  shade, 
Thy  star  will  shine  out  when  the  proudest  shall  fade! 
Unchilled  by  the  rain,  and  unwaked  by  the  wind, 

The  lily   lies   sleeping  through   winter's   cold   hour, 
Till   Spring's   light   touch   her   fetters   unbind. 

And  daylight  and  liberty  bless  the  young  flower. 
Thus  Erin,  O  Erin,  thy  winter  is  past, 
And  the  hope  that  lived  through  it  shall  blossom  at  last! 

EVER  OF   THEE. 

Ever  of  thee  I'm  fondly  dreaming; 

Thy  gentle  voice  my  spirit  can  cheer; 
Thou  wert  the  star  that,  mildly  beaming, 

Shone  o'er  my  path  when  all  was  dark  and  drear. 
Still  in  my  heart  thy  form  I  cherish; 

Ev'ry  kind  thought  like  a  bird  flies  to  thee. 
Ah,   never,  till  life  and  memory  perish, 

Can  I  forget  how  dear  thou  art  to  me — 
Morn,  noon,  and  night,  where'er  I  may  be, 

Fondly  I'm  dreaming  ever  of  thee. 
Ever  of  thee,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

Wandering  afar,  my  soul's  joy,  to  dwell — 
Ah,   then  I  felt  I  loved  thee  only. 

All  seemed  to  fade  before  affection's  spell. 
Years  have  not  chill'd  the  love  I  cherish, 

True  as  the  stars  hath  my  heart  been  to  thee, 
Ah,   never  till  life  and  memory  perish. 

Can  I  forget  how  dear  thou  art  to  me. 
Morn,  noon,  and  night,  where'er  I  may  be, 

Fondly  I'm  dreaming  ever  of  thee. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  31 

ERIN!  THE  TEAR  AND  THE  SMILE  IN  THINE  EYES. 

Erin!  the  tear  and  the  smile  in  thine  eyes 
Blend  like  the  rainbow  that  hangs  in  thy  skies! 

Shining   through    sorrow's   stream. 

Saddening  through  pleasure's  beam, 

Thy  suns  with  doubtful   gleam 

Weep  while  they  rise. 
Erin!   thy   silent  tear  never  shall   cease, 
Erin!  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 

Till,   like  the  rainbow's  light, 

Thy   various  tints  unite, 

And  form,   in   Heaven's  sight, 
One  arch  of  peace! 


FAREWELL!    BUT    WHENEVER    YOU    WELCOME. 

Farewell!     but  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it,  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return — not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of  pain; 
But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  ling'ring  with  you; 
And  still  on  that  evening,  •  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top-sparkle  each  heart  and  each  cup, 
Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
My  soul,  happy  friends,  shall  be  with  you  that  night; 
Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your  wiles. 
And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o'er  with  your  smiles — 
Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  murmured,  "I  wish  he  were  here!" 
Let  Fate  do  her  worst— there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright  dreams  of  the  past,   which  she  cannot  destroy; 
Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  Joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,    long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  filled! 
Like  the  vase,  in  which  roses  have  once  been  distilled — 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter,  the  vase  if  you  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 


KATTY,  AVOURNEEN. 

"Twas  a  cowld  winter's  night  and   the  tempest  was  snarlin', 

The  snow,   like  a  sheet,  cover'd  cabin  and  sty, 
When   Barney  flew  over  the  hills  to  his  darlin', 

And  tapp'd  at  the  window  where  Katty  did  lie. 
"Arrah!   jewel,"    says  he,    "are  you   sleeping  or  waking, 

It's  a  bitter  cowld  night,  and  my  coat  it  is  thin, 
The  storm  it  is  brewin',   the  frost  it  is  bakin', 

Oh!  Katty,  avourneen,  you  must  let  me  in." 
"Ah!  then,  Barney,"  says  Kate,  and  she  spoke  through  the  window, 

"How  could  you  be  taking  us  out  of  our  beds, 
To  come  at  this  time;  it's  a  shame  and  a  sin,  too, 

It's  whiskey,   not  love,  has  got  into  your  head. 
If  your  heart  it  was  true,  of  my  fame  you'd  be  tindher, 

Considher  the  time,  an*  there's  nobody  in, 
What  has  a  poor  girl  but  her  name  to  defend  her? 

No,  Barney,  avourneen,  I  won't  let  you  in!" 
"A  cuishla,"  says  Tie,  "it's  my  heart  is  a  fountain. 

That  weeps  for  the  wrong  I  might  lay  at  your  door; 
Your  name  is  more  white  than  the  snow  on  the  mountain, 

And  Barney  'Id  die  to  presarve  it  as  pure. 
I'll  go  to  my  home,  tho'  the  winter  winds  face  me, 

I'll  whistle  them  off,   for  I'm  happy  within, 
And  the  words  of  my  Katty  will  comfort  and  bless  m«. 

'No,  Barney,  avourneen,  I  won't  let  you  in1.'  " 


32  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

ERIN,  MAVOURNEEN. 

When  the  pure  sense  of  honor  shall  cease  to  inspire  thee 

And  kind  hospitality  leaves  thy  gay  shore; 
When  the  nations  that  know  thee,  no  longer  admire  thee, 

Then,  Erin,  mavourneen,  I'll  love  thee  no  more. 
When  the  trumpet  of  fame  shall  cease  to  proclaim  thee, 

Of  warriors  the  nurse,  in  the  ages  of  yore, 
When  the  muse  and  the  record  of  genius  disclaim  thee, 

Then,  Erin,  mavourneen,  I'll  love  thee  no  more. 
When  thy  brave  sons  no  longer  are  generous  and  witty 

And  cease  to  be  loved  by  the  fair  they  adore, 
When  thy  daughters  no  longer  are  virtuous  and  pretty, 

Then,  Erin,  mavourneen,  I'll  love  thee  no  more. 

ERIN  IS  MY   HOME. 

Oh,  I  have  roamed  in  many  lands, 

And   many  friends  I've  met, 
Not  one  fair  scene  or  kindly  smile 

Can  this  fond  heart  forget. 
But  I'll  confess  that  I'm  content, 

No  more  I  wish  to  roam; 
Oh,  steer  my  bark  for  Erin's  Isle, 

For  Erin  is  my  home. 
If  England  were  my  place  of  birth, 

I'd  love  her  tranquil  shore, 
And  if  Columbia  were  my  home, 

Her  freedom  I'd  adore; 
Tho'  pleasant  days  in  both  I've  passed, 

I  dream  of  days  to  come; 
Oh,  steer  my  bark  to  Erin's  Isle, 

For  Erin  is  my  home. 

GO  WHERE   GLORY  WAITS  THEE. 

Go  where  glory  waits  thee, 
But  while   fame  elates  thee, 

Oh!  still  remember  me. 
When  the  praise  thou  meetest, 
To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
Other  arms  may  press  thee 
Dearer  friends  caress  thee, 
All  the  joys  that  bless  thee. 

Sweeter   far    may    be; 
But  when  friends  are  nearest, 
And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
When,   at  eve,  thou  rovest 
By   the   star  thou   lovest, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
Think,  when  home  returning, 
Bright  we've  seen  it  burning — 

Oh!   thus   remember  me. 
Oft,   as  summer  closes, 
When   thine  eye  reposes 
On  its  ling'ring  roses, 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 
Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 
Her  who  made  thee  love  them — 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
When,   around  thee  dying, 
Autumn    leaves    are    lying, 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 
And,  at  night,  when  gazing 
On   the  gay   hearth,   blazing, 

Oh!  still  remember  me. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  33 

Then  should  music,    stealing, 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 
To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee; 
Then  let  memory  bring  thee 
Strains  I  used  to  sing  thee — 

Oh!  then  remember  me. 


I  SAW  FKOM  THE  BEACH. 

I  saw  from   the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 

A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously   on; 
I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining — 

The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 
And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 

So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known; 
Each  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 

And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 
Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night — 
Give  me  back,  give  me  back  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning 

Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best  light. 
Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 

When  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his  frame, 
And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning 

Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame! 


I  SAW  THY  FORM. 

I  saw  thy  form  in  youthful  prime, 

Nor  thought  that  pale  decay 
Would  steal  before  the  steps  of  time, 

And  waste  its  bloom  away,   Mary! 
Yet  still  thy  features  wore  that  light 

Which  fleets  not  with   the  breath; 
And  life  ne'er  looked  more  truly  bright 

Than  in  thy  smile  of  death,   Mary! 
As  streams  that  run  o'er  golden  mines, 

Yet  humbly,   calmly  glide, 
Nor  seem  to  know  the  wealth  that  shines 

Within   their   gentle   tide!    Mary, 
So,  veiled  beneath  the  simplest  guise, 

Thy  radiant  genius  shone, 
And  that  which  charmed  all  other  eyes 

Seemed  worthless  in  thine  own,   Mary! 


JOYS  THAT  PASS  AWAY. 

Joys  that  pass  away  like  this, 

Alas!  are  purchased  dear, 
If  every  beam   of  bliss 

Is  followed  by  a  tear. 
Fare  thee  well— oh,  fare  thee  well! 
Soon,  too  soon,  thou  hast  broke  the  spell. 

Oh,  I   ne'er  can  love  again 
The   girl   whose   faithless   art 

Could  break   so  dear  a  chain, 
And  with  it  break  my  heart! 
Once,  when  truth  was  in  those  eyes, 

How  beautiful   they   shone! 
But  now  that  lustre  flies. 

For  truth,   alas!  is  gone. 
Fare  thee  well — oh,  fare  thee  well! 
How  I've  loved  my  hate   shall  tell. 

Oh,  how  lorn,  how  lost  would  prove 
Thy  wretched   victim's   fate, 

If,   when    deceived   in   love, 
He  could  not  fly  to  hate. 


34  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

I'M  DREAMING  OF  THEE,  NORAH. 

I'm  dreaming  of  thee,  Norah,  I'm  dreaming  still  of  thee, 
Thy  spirit  haunts  me  ever,   like  fairy   melody; 
When  in  loneliness  I  wander,  or  in  halls  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Ah!  my  heart  to  thine  is  turning,  I'm  dreaming  still  of  thee. 

I'm  dreaming  of  thee,   Norah, 

I'm  dreaming  still  of  thee. 

I'm  dreaming  of  thee,  dearest,  I  dream  of  thee  alone, 
I  think  how  well  I  love  thee,  and  feel  we  shall  be  one; 
For  I  know  there  is  no  other  e'er  can  be  so  dear  to  me, 
Ah!  whene'er  I  dream  of  angels,  I'm  dreaming  still  of  thee. 

I'm   dreaming  of  thee,   Norah, 

I'm  dreaming  still  of  thee. 

IRISH  MARY. 

Far  away  from  Erin's  strand, 

And  valleys  wide  and  sounding  waters. 
Still    she  is,   in   every   land, 

One  of  Erin's  real  daughters; 
Oh!   to  meet  her  here  is  like 

A  dream  of  home  and  natal  mountains, 
On  our  hearts  their  verses  strike — 

We  hear  the  gushing  of  their  fountains! 

Yes!  our  Irish  Mary,  dear! 
Our  own,   our  real  Irish  Mary! 

A  flower  of  home,  fresh  blooming  come, 

Art  thou  to  us  our  Irish  Mary! 
Round  about  us  here  we  see 

Bright  eyes  like  hers,  and  sunny  faces 
Charming  all! — if  all  were  free 

Of  foreign  airs,  of  borrowed  graces. 
Mary's  eye  it  flashes  truth! 

And   Mary's   spirit,    Mary's  nature, 
"Irish  Lady,"  fresh  in  youth, 

Have  beam'd  o'er  every  look  and  feature! 

Yes!  our  Irish  Mary,  dear! 
When  La  Tournure  doth  make  us  weary, 

We  have  you,  to  turn  unto. 

For  native  grace,  our  Irish  Mary. 
Sighs  of  home!— her  Erin's  songs 

O'er  all  their  songs  we  love  to  listen; 
Tears  of  home! — her  Erin's  wrongs 

Subdue  our  kindred   eyes  to  glisten! 
Oh!  should  woe  to  gloom  consign 

The  clear  fireside  of  love  and  honor,       • 
You  will   see  a  holier  sign 

Of   Irish   Mary   bright  upon  her! 

Yes!  our  Irish  Mary,  dear! 
Will  light  that  home,  though  e'en  so  dreary, 

Shining  still   o'er   clouds  of  ill, 
Sweet  star  of  life,  our  Irish  Mary! 


FROM  LIFE  WITHOUT  FREEDOM. 

From  life  without  freedom,  oh,  who  would  not  fly? 
For  one  day  of  freedom,   oh,   who  would  not  die? 
Hark,  hark!  'tis  the  trumpet,  the  call  of  the  brave, 
The  death-song  of  tyrants  and  dirge  of  the  slave. 
Our  country  lies  bleeding — oh,  fly  to  her  aid! 
One  arm  that  defends  is  worth  hosts  that  invade. 
In   Death's  kindly   bosom  our  last  hope   remains — 
The  dead  fear  no  tyrants;  the  grave  has  no  chains; 
On,  on  to  the  combat!  the  heroes  that  bleed 
For  virtue  and  mankind,  are  heroes  indeed! 
And  oh,  even  if  Freedom  from  this  world  be  driven. 
Despair  not — at  least  we  shall  find  her  in  heaven! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

I'VE  A  SECRET  TO   TELL  THEE. 

I've  a  secret  to  tell  thee,  but  bush!  not  here — 

Oh,  not  where  the  world  Its  vigil  keeps; 
I'll  seek  to  whisper  it  in  thine  ear, 

On  some  shore  where  the  Spirit  of  Silence  sleepi; 
Where  Summer's  wave  unmurm'ring  dies, 

Nor  Fay  can  hear  the  fountain's  gush; 
Where,  if  but  a  note  her  night-bird  sighs, 

The  Rose  saith,  chidingly,  "Hush,  sweet,  hush!" 

There,  amid  the  deep  silence  of  that  hour, 

When  stars  can  be  heard  in  ocean  dip, 
Thyself  shall,  under  some  rosy  bower, 

Sit  mute,  with  thy  finger  on  thy  lip; 
Like  him,  the  boy  who,  born  among 

The  flowers  that  on  the  Nile-stream  blush, 
Sits  ever  thus — his  only  song, 

To  earth  and  heaven,  "Hush,  all,  hush!" 


KATE    O'SHANE. 

The  cold  winds  of  Autumn  wail  mournfully  here, 

The  leaves  round  me  falling  are  faded  and  sere; 

But  chill  though  the  breeze  be,  and  threat'ning  the  storm, 

My  heart,    full  of   fondness,   beats  kindly  and   warm. 

Oh!    Dennis,    dear,    come    back    to   me, 

I  count  the  hours  away  from  thee, 

Return  and   never  part  again 

From  thine  own  darling — Kate  O'Shane. 
'Twas  here  we  last  parted,   'twas   here  we  first  met, 
And  ne'er  has  he  caused  me  one  tear  of  regret; 
The  seasons  may  alter,  their  change  I   defy, 
My  heart's  one  glad  summer  when  Dennis  is  by. 
Oh!  Dennis,   dear,   etc. 


KITTY  TYRRELL. 

You're  looking  as   fresh   as   the  morn,   darling, 

You're  looking  as  bright  as  the  day; 
But  while  on  your  charms  I'm  dilating, 

You're  stealing  my  poor  heart  away. 
But  keep  it  and  welcome,  mavourneen, 

Its  loss  I'm  not  going  to  mourn; 
Yet  one  heart's  enough  for  a  body, 

So  pray  give  me  yours  in  return. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

O!  pray  give  me  yours  in  return. 
I've  built  me  a  neat  little  cot,  darling, 

I've  pigs  and  potatoes  in  store; 
I've  twenty  good  pounds  in  the  bank,   love, 

And  may  be,  a  pound  or  two  more. 
It's  all  very  well  to  have  riches, 

But  I'm  such  a  covetous  elf, 
I  can't  help  still  sighing  for  something, 

And,  darling,   that  something's  yourself. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

And  that  something,  you  know,  is  yourself. 
You're  smiling,  and  that's  a  good  sign,  darling, 

Say   "Yes,"  and  you'll  never  repent, 
Or,  if  you  would  rather  be  silent, 

Your  silence  I'll  take  for  consent. 
That  good-natured  dimple's  a  tell-tale, 

Now,  all  that  I  have  is  your  own; 
This  week  you  may  be  Kitty  Tyrrell, 

Next  week  you'll  be  Mistress  Malone. 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen, 

You'll  be  my  own  Mistress  Malone. 


36  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

IT  IS  NOT  THE  TEAR. 

It  is  not  the  tear  at  this  moment  shed. 

When  the  cold  turf  has  just  been  laid  o'er  him, 
That  can  tell  how  beloved  was  the  friend  that's  fled 

Or  how  deep  in  our  hearts  we  deplore  him. 
'Tis  the  tear,  through  many  a  long  day  wept, 

'Tis  life's  whole  path  o'ershaded, 
'Tis  the  one  remembrance,  fondly  kept, 

When  all  lighter  griefs  have  faded. 
Thus  his  memory,  like  some  holy  light, 

Kept  alive  in  our  hearts,   will  improve  them; 
For  worth  shall  look  fairer  and  truth  more  bright 

When  we  think  how  he  lived  but  to  love  them. 
And,   as  fresher  flowers  the  sod  perfume 

Where  buried  saints  are  lying, 
So  our  hearts  shall  borrow  a  sweetening  bloom 

From  the  image  he  left  there  in  dying! 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN. 

Kathleen,  mavourneen!  the  gray  dawn  is  breaking, 

The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
The  lark  from  her  light  wing  the  bright  dew  is  shaking, 

Kathleen,   mavourneen,   what,   slumb'ring  still? 
Ah!  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must  sever? 

Oh!  hast  thou  forgotten  this  day  we  must  part? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever, 

Oh!  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever, 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen,   mavourneen? 
Kathleen,   mavourneen!  awake  from  thy  slumbers. 

The  blue  mountains  glow  in  the  sun's  golden  light, 
Ah!  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on  my  numbers, 

Arise,  in  thy  beauty,  thou  star  of  my  night, 
Mavourneen,  mavourneen,  my  sad  tears  are  falling, 

To  think  that  from  Erin  and  thee  I  must  part, 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever, 

Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of  my  heart? 
It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever, 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,   Kathleen,   mavourneen? 

KATE  O'BRIEN. 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  there's  a  sweet  little  stream, 

Far  down  in  a  dell,  where  a  poet  might  dream; 

A  nate  little  cabin  stands  close  to  the  tide, 

And,  och,  such  a  jewel  is  shining  inside. 

I  don't  mean  a  jewel  that  money  can  buy, 

But  a  warm-hearted  creature  with  love  in  her  eye; 

You'll  not  find  a  beauty  so  beauteous  as  she, 

From   Ballinacrasy  to   Donaghadee. 

Her  name  is  O'Brien,   they  christened  her  Kate; 

There's  many  a  beauty  has  shared  the  same  fate; 

But  never  a  one,  to  my  thinking,  I've  seen 

So  lovely,  so  trim,  as  my  bright-eyed  colleen. 

Her  face  is  a  picture  for  limners  to  paint: 

Her  figure  might  serve   for  a  heart  winning   saint; 

Oh,  you'll  not  find  a  beauty  so  beauteous  as  she, 

From  ,  Ballinacrasy  to  Donaghadee. 

Her  hair,  it  is  smooth  as  the  raven's  own  back, 

But  the  bonniest  bird  has  not  tresses  so  black; 

And  they  curl  round  a  neck  that  might  rival  the  snow, 

With  the  grace  of  a  swan  on  the  waters  below. 

Her  mouth— oh,  what  music  I've  heard  from  that  same! 

Her  breath — it  might  put  the  sweet  roses  to  shame; 

Oh,  you'll  not  find  a  beauty  so  beauteous  as  she, 

From  Ballinacrasy  to  Donaghadee. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  37 

LOVE  THEE,  DEAREST,  LOVE  THEE! 

Love   thee,    dearest,   love  thee? 

Yes,  by  yonder  star  I  swear, 
Which,  through  tears,  above, 

Shines  so  sadly  fair, 
Though  too  oft  dim  with  tears  like  him, 

Like  him  my  truth  will  shine; 
And  love  thee,   dearest,   love  thee? 

Yes— till  death  I'm  thine! 

Leave  thee,   dearest,   leave  thee? 

No — that   star  is   not  more   true; 
When  my  vows  deceive  thee, 

He   will   wander,   too. 
A  cloud  of  night  may  veil  his  light, 

And  death  shall  darken  mine; 
But  leave  thee,  dearest,   leave  thee? 

No— till  death  I'm  thine! 


NORA   CREINA. 

Lesbia  hath  a  beaming  eye, 

But  no  one  knows  for  whom  it  beameth; 
Right  and   left   its    arrows   fly, 

But  what  they  aim  at  no  one  dreameth. 
Sweeter  'tis  to  gaze  upon 

My   Nora's   lid,   that  seldom  rises; 
Few  its  looks,  but  every  one, 

Like  unexpected  light,  surprises. 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,   dear, 
My  gentle,   bashful  Nora  Creina, 

Beauty  lies  in  many  eyes, 
But  love  In  yours,  my  Nora  Creina! 

Lesbia  wears  a  robe  of  gold, 

But  also  close  the  nymph  hath   laced  it, 
Not  a  charm  of  beauty's  mold 

Presumes  to  stay  where  Nature   placed  it. 
Oh,  my  Nora's  gown  for  me, 

That  floats  as  wild  as  mountain  breezes, 
Leaving  every  beauty  free 

To  sink  or  swell  as  Heaven  pleases. 

Yes,  my  Nora  Creina,  dear, 
My  simple,   graceful   Nora  Creina, 

Nature's  dress  is  loveliness — 
The  dress  you  wear,  my  Nora  Creina! 

Lesbia  hath  a  wit  refined, 

But  when   its   points  are  gleaming  round  us, 
Who   can  tell  if   they're  designed 

To   dazzle  merely,   or  to   wound  us? 
Pillowed   on   my   Nora's   heart, 

In  safe  slumber  love  reposes — 
Bed   of  peace!   whose  roughest   part 

Is  but  the  crumpling  of  the  roses. 

Oh,  my  Nora  Creina,   dear, 
My  mild,    my  artless  Nora   Creina, 

Wit,  though  bright,  hath  no  such  light 
As  warms  your  eyes,  my  Nora  Creina! 


IRISH  EMIGRANT'S  LAMENT. 

I'm  sitting  on  the  stile,   Mary, 

Where  we  sat   side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morning  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride; 
The  corn  was  springing  fresh  and  green,, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
Anf*  tfce  red  was  on  thy  lip,  Mary, 

And   the  love  light  In  your  eye. 


38  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  as  bright  as  then; 
The   lark's   loud    song   is   in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again! 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  list'ning  for  the  words 

You  never  more  may  speak. 
"Tls  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 
The  church   where  we  were  wed,   Mary, 
.    I   see  the  spire   from  here; 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And   my  step  might  break   your  rest, 
For   I've    laid    you,    darling,    down    to   sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 
I'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make   no  new  friends, 
But,  O!  they  love  them  better  far, 

The  few  our   Father   sends; 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride; 
There's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 
I'm  bidding  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary,  kind  and  true, 
But  I'll  not  forget  you,    darling, 

In  the  land  I'm  going  to. 
They  say  there's  bread   and   work   for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there; 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair! 


LOVE'S  LIGHT  SUMMER-CLOUD. 

Pain  and  sorrow  shall  vanish  before  us — 

Youth  may  wither,  but  feeling  will  last, 
All  the  shadow  that  e'er  shall  fall  o'er  us, 

Love's  light  summer  cloud  sweetly  shall  cast. 
Oh,  if  to  love  thee  more,  each  hour  I  number  o'er; 

If  this  a  passion  be  worthy  of  thee, 
Then  be  happy,   for  thus  I   adore  thee — 

Charms  may  wither,   but  feeling  will  last. 
All  the  shadow  that  e'er  shall  fall  o'er  thee, 

Love's  light  summer  cloud  sweetly  shall  cast, 
Rest,  dear  bosom!   no  sorrow  shall  pain  thee, 

Sighs  of  pleasure  alone   shalt  thou  steal; 
Beam,  bright  eyelid!  no  weeping  shall  stain  thee, 

Tears  of  rapture  alone  thou  shalt  feel, 
Oh,  if  there  be  a  charm  in  love  to  banish  harm; 

If  pleasure's  truest  spell  be  to  love  well, 
Then   be  happy,   for  thus   I  adore  thee — 

Charms  may  wither,  but  feeling  will  last, 
All  the  shadow  that  e'er  shall  fall  o'er  thee, 

Love's  light  summer  cloud  sweetly  shall  cast. 

DUET. 
LOVE,  MY  MARY,   DWELLS  WITH  THEE. 

HE. — Love,  my  Mary,   dwells  with  thee, 

On  thy  cheek  his  bed  I   see. 
SHE. — No,    that   cheek   is   pale   with    care — 

Love  can   find  no  roses  there. 
BOTH. — 'Tis  not  on  the  bed  of  rose, 

Love  can  find  the  best  repose; 
In  my  heart  his  home  thou'lt  see — 
There  he  lives,  and  lives  for  thee. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  39 

HE. — Love,  my  Mary,  ne'er  can  roam, 

While  he  makes  that  eye  his  home. 
SHE. — No,  the  eye  with  sorrow  dim. 

Ne'er  can  be  a  home  for  him. 
BOTH. — Yet  'tis  not  in  beaming  eyes, 
Love  forever  warmest  lies; 
In  my  heart  his  home  thou'lt  see — 
There  he  lives,  and  lives  for  thee! 


KATIE    O'RYAN. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Shannon,  in  darling  old  Ireland, 

Dwells  a  fair  damsel,   she's  soon  to  be  mine, 
She's   a   darling  young  creature  and   lovely  in  feature, 

I  ne'er  can  forget  her!  dear  Katie  O'Ryan. 
She's  as  fair  as  the  dawn  of  the  morning  while  beaming, 

Her  eyes  soft,  her  lips  like  the  ruby  red  wine, 
Oh!  she's  the  dear  little  shamrock,   I'm  constantly  dreaming 

Of  my  own  darling  Katie,  dear  Katie  O'Ryan. 
CHORUS. — She's  the  dear  little  shamrock,  I'm  constantly  dreaming 

Of  my  own  darling  Katie,  dear  Katie  O'Ryan. 
I  now  have  roy'd  far  to  a  land  call'd  America, 

A  home,   Katie  dear,   for  the  honest  and  true, 
My  heart  saddens  tho"  when  I  think  that  I  am 

So  far  away  from  old  Ireland,  and  Katie,  from  you. 
The  winter  is  on,  but  I  heed  not  its  cold,  dear. 

The  spring  will  bring  flow'rs  and  joy  to  my  heart. 
Oh!  for  it's  nearing  the  time  when  I'll  bring  my  love  out  here, 

Then  in  this  free  country  our  new  lives  we'll  start. 

She's  the  dear,    etc. 
The  fields  here  are  green  as  they  are  in  old  Ireland, 

And  all  have  their  freedom  to  do  what  is  right; 
Ah!    Katie,   I've  seen  pretty  girls  by   the  thousand, 

And  I'm  thinking  of  none  but  you,  darling,   to-night. 
When  the  bright  summer  comes,  I  will  hasten,  sure,  back  again, 

Take  your  soft  tender  hands  gently   in   mine.    Oh! 
I'll  never  more  leave  you,   but  thro'   life  we'll  wander; 

Till  death,  it  will  part  me  and  Katie  O'Ryan. 
She's   the   dear,   etc. 


A    LONG    FAREWELL    I    SEND    TO    THEE. 

A  long  farewell   I  send  to  thee, 
Fair  Maig  of  corn  and  fruit  and  tree, 
Of  state  and  gift  and  gathering  grand, 
Of  song,   romance  and   chieftain   bland. 
Uch  och  6n!   dark  fortune's  rigour, 
Wealth,   title,  bribe  of  glorious  figure. 
Feast,  gift,  all  gone,  and  gone  my  vigour, 
Since  thus  I  wander  lonely. 
Farewell   to  her  to   whom   'tis  due. 
The  fair  skin,   gentle,   mild-lipp'd  true, 
For  whom  exil'd  o'er  the  hills  I  go, 
My  heart's  dear  love,  whate'er  my  woe. 
Uch  och  <5n!  dark  fortune's  rigour — 
Wealth,  title,  bribe  of  glorious  figure, 
Feast,  gift,  all  gone,  and  gone  my  vigour, 
Since  thus  I  wander  lonely. 
Forc'd  by  the  priests  my  love  to  flee, 
Fair  Maig  thro'   life   I   ne'er   shall  see; 
And  must  my  beauteous  bird  forego, 
And   all   the   sex  that  wrought  me  wo«. 
Uch  och   fin!   my   grief,   my   ruin! 
'Twas  drinking  deep   and   beauty   wooing 
That  caus'd  thro'   life  my  whole  undoing 
And  left  me  thus  wand'ring  lonely. 


40  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MOLLY,   ASTHORE. 

As  down  by  Banna's  banks  I  strayed,  one  evening  in  May, 

The  little  birds  in  blithest  notes  made  vocal  every  spray; 

They  sung  their  little  notes  of   love,   they   sung  them   o'er  and  o'er — 

Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

The  daisy  pied  and   all  the  sweets  the  dawn  of  Nature  yields, 
The  primrose  pale,  the  violet  blue,  lay  scattered  o'er  the  fields, 
Such  fragrance  in  the  bosom  lies  of  her  whom  I  adore, 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  a  bank,  bewailing  my  sad  fate, 
That  doomed  me  thus  a  slave  to  love,  and  cruel  Molly's  hate; 
How  can  she  break  the  honest  heart  that  wears  her  in  its  core? 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

You  said  you  loved  me,  Molly,  dear — ah!    why  did  I  believe? 
Yet  who  could  think  such  tender  words  were  meant  but  to  deceive, 
That  love  was  all  I  asked  on  eath— nay!    heaven  could  give  no  more. 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

Oh!    had  I  all  the  flocks  that  graze  on  yonder  yellow  hill, 
Or  lowed  for  me  the  numerous  herds  that  yon  green  pasture  fill, 
With  her  I  love  I'd  gladly  share  my  kine  and  fleecy  store, 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

Two  turtle-doves  above  my  head,  sat  courting  on  a  bough, 
I  envied  them  their  happiness  to  see  them  bill  and  coo, 
Such  fondness  once  for  me  was  shown,  but  now,  alas!    'tis  o'er, 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  Molly  dear,  thy  loss  I  e'er  shall  mourn, 
While  life  remains  in  Stephen's  heart  'twill  beat  for  thee  alone, 
Though  thou  art  false,  may  heaven  on  thee  its  choicest  blessings  pour, 
Ah!    gramachree,  my  colleen  oge,  my  Molly,  asthore. 


NORA   O'NEAL. 

Oh!    I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you, 

And  I  sigh  for  one  glance  of  your  eye; 
For  sure,  there's  a  charm,  love,  about  you, 

Whenever  I  know  you  are  nigh. 
Like  the  beam  of  the  star  when  'tis  smiling, 

Is  the  glance  which  your  eye  can't  conceal, 
And  your  voice  is  so  sweet  and  beguiling 

That  I  love  you,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal. 

CHORUS. — Oh!  don't  think  that  ever  I'll  doubt  you, 

My  love  I  will  never  conceal, 
Oh!    I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you, 
My  darling,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal! 

Oh!  the  nightingale  sings  in  the  wild-wood, 

As  if  every  note  that  he  knew 
Was  learned  from  your  sweet  voice  in  childhood, 

To  remind  me,  sweet  Nora,  of  you. 
But  I  think,  love,  so  often  about  you, 

And  you  don't  know  how  happy  I  feel, 
But  I'm  lonely  to-night,  love,  without  you, 

My  darling,  sweet  Nora  O'Neal! 

Oh!    don't  think,   etc. 

Oh!    why  should  I  weep  tears  of  sorrow, 

Oh!    why  let  hope  lose  its  place? 
Won't  I  meet  you,  my  darling,  to-morrow, 

And  smile  on  your  beautiful  face? 
Will  you  meet  me?    O!    say  you  will  meet  me 

With  a  kiss  at  the  foot  of  the  lane, 
4.nd  I'll  promise  whenever  you  greet  me 

That  I'll  never  be  lonely  again. 

Oh!    don't  think,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  41 

MY  EMMET'S  NO   MORE. 

Despair  in  her  wild  eye,   a  daughter  of  Erin 

Appear'd  on  the  cliffs  of  the  bleak  rocky  shore; 
Loose  in  the  wind  flow'd  her  dark  streaming  ringlets 

And  heedless  she  gaz'd  on  the  dread  surge's  roar. 
Loud  rang  her  harp  in  wild  tones  of  despairing; 
The  time  pass'd  away  with  the  present  comparing, 
And  in  soul-thrilling  strains  deeper  sorrow  declaring, 

She  sang  Erin's  woes  and  her  Emmet  no  more. 
O,  Erin,  my  country,  your  glory's  departed; 

For  tyrants  and  traitors  have  stabbed  thy  heart's  core; 
Thy  daughters  have  laved  in  the  streams  of  affliction, 

Thy  patriots  have  fled,  or  lie  stretched  in  their  gore, 
Ruthless  ruffians  now  prowl  thro'  thy  hamlets  forsaken, 
From  pale  hungry  orphans  their  last  morsel  have  taken; 
The  screams  of  thy  females  no  pity  awaken; 

Alas!    my  poor  country,  your  Emmet's  no  more. 
Brave  was  his  spirit,  yet  mild  as  the  Brahmin, 

His  heart  bled  in  anguish  the  wrongs  of  the  poor; 
To  relieve   their   hard    sufferings   he  brav'd   every   danger, 

The  vengeance  of  tyrants  undauntedly  bore. 
E'en  before  him  the  proud  titled  villains  in  power 
Were  seen,  though  in  ermine,  in  terror  to  cower; 
But  alas!    he  is  gone,  he  has  fallen,  a  young  flower, 

They  have  murder'd  my  Emmet,  my  Emmet's  no  more. 


MOLLIE  DARLING. 

Won't  you  tell  me,  Mollie  darling, 

That  you   love  none   else  but  me? 
For  I  love  you,  Mollie  darling, 

You  are  all  the  world  to  me. 
Oh!    tell  me,   darling,   that  you  love  me, 

Put  your  little  hand  in  mine, 
Take  my   heart,    sweet  Mollie  darling, 

Say  that  you  will  give  me  thine. 
CHORUS. — Mollie,  fairest,  sweetest,  dearest, 

Look  up.  darling,  tell  me  this: 
Do  you  love  me,  Mollie  darling? 

Let  your  answer  be  a  kiss. 
Stars  are  smiling,  Mollie  darling, 

Through   the   mystic   veil   of  night; 
They  seem   laughing,   Mollie  darling, 

While  fair  Luna  hides  her  light; 
Oh!  no  one  listens  but  the  flowers, 

While  they  hang  their  heads  in  shame, 
They  are  modest,   Mollie  darling, 

When  they  hear  me  call  your  name. 

Mollie,   fairest,   etc. 
I  must  leave  you,  Mollie  darling, 

Though   the    parting   gives    me   pain; 
When  the  stars  shine,  Mollie  darling, 

I  will  meet  you  here  again. 
Oh!    good-night,    Mollie,   good-bye,   loved  one, 

Happy  may  you  ever  be! 
When  you're  dreaming,  Mollie  darling, 

Don't  forget  to  dream  of  me. 

Mollie,   fairest,   etc. 

NORAH,  THE  PRIDE  OF  KILDARE. 

As  beauteous  as  Flora  is  charming  young  Norah, 
The  joy  of  my  heart  and  the  pride  of  Kildare, 

I  ne'er  will  deceive  her,  for  sadly  'twould  grieve  her, 

To  find  that  I  sighed  for  another  less  fair. 
CHORUS. — Her  heart  with  truth  teeming,  her  eye  with  smiles  beaming, 


42  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

What  mortal  could  injure  a  blossom  so  fair? 
Oh,  Norah,  dear  Norah,  the  pride  of  Kildare. 
Where'er  I  may  be,  love,  I'll  ne'er  forget  thee,  love, 

Though  beauties  may  smile  and  try  to  ensnare, 
Yet  nothing  shall  ever  my  heart  from  thine  sever, 

Dear  Norah,  sweet  Norah,  the  Pride  of  Kildare. 

MOLIY  BAWN. 

O  Molly  Dawn,  why  leave  me  pining 

Or  lonely  waiting  here  for  you — 
While  the  stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 

Because  they  have  nothing  else  to  do. 
The  flowers  late  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you, 
But  their   mother,   Nature,   kept  them   sleeping, 

With  their  rosy  faces  wash'd  in  dew. 
The  pretty  flowers  were  made  to  bloom,  dear, 

And  the  pretty  stars  were  made  to  shine; 
The  pretty  girls  were  made  for  the  boys,  dear, 

And  may  be  you  were  made  for  mine. 
The  wicked  watch-dog  here  is  snarling— 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  d'ye  see? 
For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly,  darling, 

And  then  transported  I   should  be. 

NOKAH  McSHANE. 

I've  left  Ballymornach  a  long  way  behind  me, 

To  better  my  fortune  I've  crossed  the  big  sea; 
But  I'm  sadly  alone,  not  a  creature  to  mind  me, 

And  faith,  I'm  as  wretched  as  wretched  can  be; 
I  think  of  the  buttermilk,   fresh  as  the  daisy, 

The  beautiful  hills  and  the  emerald  plain, 
And,  ah!    don't  I  oftentimes  think  myself  crazy 

About   that  black-eyed    rogue,    sweet   Norah    McShane. 
I  sigh  for  the  turf-pile,  so  cheerfully  burning, 

When  barefoot  I  trudged  it  from  toiling  afar, 
When  I  toss'd  in  the  light  the  thirteen  I'd  been  earning, 

And  whistled  the  anthem  of  "Erin  go  bragh." 
In  truth,   I  believe  that  I'm  half  broken-hearted, 

To  my  country  and  love  I  must  get  back  again, 
For  I've  never  been  happy  at  all  since  I  parted 

From  sweet  Ballymornach  and  Norah  McShane. 
Oh!    there's  something  so  sweet  in  the  cot  I  was  born  in, 

Though  the  walls  are  but  mud  and  the  roof  is  but  thatch; 
How  familiar  the  grunt  of  the  pigs  in  the  mornin', 

What  music  in  lifting  the  rusty  old  latch! 
'Tis  true  I'd  no  money,  but  then  I'd  no  sorrow, 

My  pockets  were  light,  but  my  head  had  no  pain; 
And  if  I  but  live  till  the  sun  shine  to-morrow, 

I'll  be  off  to  ould  Ireland  and  Norah  McShane. 


SWEET  LAND   OF   SONG. 

Sweet  land  of  song!  thy  harp  doth  hang 

Upon  the  willows  now, 
While  famine's  blight  and  fever's  pang 

Stamp  misery  on  thy  brow; 
Yet  take  thy  harp,  and  raise  thy  voice, 

Though  faint  and  low  it  be, 
And  let  thy  sinking  heart  rejoice 

In  friends  still  left  to  thee! 
Look  out— look  out — across  the  sea 

That  girds  the  emerald  shore, 
A  ship  of  war  is  bound  for  thee, 

But  with  no  warlike  store; 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  43 

Her  thunder  sleeps — 'tis  Mercy's  breath 

That  wafts  her  o'er  the  sea; 
She  goes  not  forth  to  deal  out  death, 

But  bears  new  life  to  thee! 
Thy  wasted  hand  can  scarcely  strike 

The  chords  of  grateful  praise; 
Thy  plaintive  tone  is  now  unlike 

The  voice  of  former  days; 
Yet,  even  in  sorrow,  tuneful  still, 

Let  Erin's  voice  proclaim 
In  bardic  praise,  on  every  hill, 

Columbia's  glorious  name! 


OH,  BLAME  NOT  THE  BARD! 

Oh,  blame  not  the  bard,  if  he  fly  to  the  bowers 

Where  pleasure  lies,   carelessly  smiling  at  fame; 
He  was  born  for  much  more,   and  in  happier  hours 

His  soul  might  have  burned  with  a  holier  flame: 
The  string  that  now  languishes  loose  o'er  the  lyre, 

Might  have  bent  a  proud  bow  to  the  warrior's  dart; 
And  the  lip,  which  now  breathes  but  the  song  of  desire, 

Might  have  poured  the  full  tide  of  a  patriot's  heart. 

But  alas  for  his  country! — her  pride  has  gone  by, 

And  that  spirit  is  broken,  which  never  would  bend; 
O'er  the  ruin  her  children  in  secret  must  sigh, 

For  'tis  treason  to  love  her,  and  death  to  defend. 
Unprized  are  her  sons,  till  they've  learned  to  betray; 

Undistinguished  they  live,  if  they  shame  not  their  sires, 
And  the  torch  that  would  light  them  through  dignity's  way 

Must  be  caught  from  the  pile  where  their  country  expires. 

Then  blame  not  the  bard,  If  in  pleasure's  soft  dream 

He  should  try  to  forget  what  he  never  can  heal: 
Oh,  give  but  a  hope — let  a  vista  but  gleam 

Through  the  gloom  of  his  country,  and  mark  how  he'll  feel 
Every  passion  it  nursed,   every  bliss  it  adored, 

That  instant  his  heart  at  her  shrine  would  lay  down; 

While  the  myrtle,  now  idly  entwined  with  his  crown, 
Like  the  wreath  of  Harmodius,  should  cover  his  sword. 

But  though  glory  be  gone,   and  though  hope  fade  away, 

Thy  name,  loved  Erin,  shall  live  in  his  songs; 
Not  even  in  the  hour  when  his  heart  is  most  gay 

Will  he  lose  the  remembrance  of  thee  and  thy  wrongs. 
The  stranger  shall  hear  thy  lament  on  his  plains; 

The  sigh  of  thy  harp  shall  be  sent  o'er  the  deep, 
Till  thy  masters  themselves,  as  they  rivet  thy  chains, 

Shall  pause  at  the  song  of  their  captive,  and  weep! 

OH,  BANQUET  NOT. 

Oh,  banquet  not  in  those  shining  bowers 

Where  Youth  resorts,  but  come  to  me: 
For  mine's  a  garden  of  faded  flowers, 

More  fit  for  sorrow,  for  age,  and  thee. 
And  there  we  shall  have  our  feasts  of  tears, 

And  many  a  cup  in  silence  pour; 
Our  guests,  the  shades  of  former  years — 

Our  toasts,  to  lips  that  bloom  no  more! 

There,  while  the  myrtle's  withering  boughs 

Their  lifeless  leaves  around  us  shed, 
We'll  brim  the  bowl  to  broken  vows, 

To  friends  long  lost,  the  changed,  the  dead, 
Or,  while  some  blighted  laurel  waves 

Its  branches  o'er  the  dreary  spot, 
We'll  drink  to  those  neglected  graves 

Where  Valor  sleeps,   unnamed,  forgot! 


44  HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 

OH,   DOUBT  ME  NOT. 

Oh,  doubt  me  not! — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  made  me  rove; 
And  now  the  vestal.  Reason, 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 
Although  this  heart  was  early  blown, 

And  fairest  hands  disturbed  the  tree, 
They  only  shook  some  blossoms  down — 

Its  fruit  has  all  been  kept  for  thee. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  made  me  rove; 
And  now   the  vestal,   Reason, 

Shall  watch  the  fire  awaked  by  Love. 
And  though  my  lute  no  longer 

May  sing  of  Passion's  ardent  spell, 
Yet  trust  me  all  the  stronger 

I  feel  the  bliss  I  do  not  tell. 
The  bee  through  many  a  garden  roves 

And  hums  his  lay  of  courtship  o'er; 
But,  when  he  finds  the  flower  he  loves, 

He  settles  there,  and  hums  no  more. 
Then  doubt  me  not — the  season 

Is  o'er  when  folly  kept  me  free; 
And  now   the  vestal,   Reason, 

Shall  guard  the  flame  awaked  by  thee. 

ARISE    FROM    THY    SLUMBERS. 

Arise  from  thy  slumbers,  oh,  fairest  of  maids! 

With  me  wilt  thou  wander  to  Truigha's  green  shades, 

Where  sorrel  and  bright  rowan  berries  abound, 

And  nuts  in  rich  clusters  the  branches  have  crowned. 

A  bed  of  fresh  ivy  to  rest  thee  I'll  bring, 

The  blackbirds  and  thrushes  around  us  shall  sing; 

And  there  with  unceasing  attachment  I'll  prove, 

How  soothing  the  cares  of  affection  and  love. 


ONE  BUMPER  AT   PARTING. 

One  bumper  at  parting! — though  many 

Have  circled  the  board  since  we  met, 
The  fullest,  the  saddest,  of  any 

Remains  to  be  crowned  by  us  yet. 
The  sweetness  that  pleasure  hath  in  it 

Is  always  so  slow  to  come  forth, 
That  seldom,  alas!    till  the  minute 

It  dies,  do  we  know  half  its  worth. 
But  come — may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure — 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

As  onward  we   journey,  how  pleasant 

To  pause  and  inhabit  awhile 
Those  few  sunny  spots,  like  the  present, 

That  'mid  the  dull  wilderness  smile! 
But  Time,  like  a  pitiless  master, 

Cries  "Onward!"  and  spurs  the  gay  hours— 
Ah,  never  doth  Time  travel  faster 

Than  when  his  way  lies  among  flowers! 
But  come — may  our  life's  happy  measure 

Be  all  of  such  moments  made  up; 
They're  born  on  the  bosom  of  Pleasure — 

They  die  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

We  saw  how  the  sun   looked  In  sinking, 
The  waters  beneath  him  how  bright; 

And  now  let  our  farewell  of  drinking 
Resemble  that  farewell  of  light: 

You  saw  how  he  finished,  by  darting 
His  beam  o'er  a  deep  billow's  brim — 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  45 

So  fill  up,  let's  shine  at  our  parting 

In  full  liquid  glory,  like  him! 
And  oh,  may  our  life's  happy  measure, 

Of  moments  like  this  be  made  up! 
'Twas   born    on    the  bosom   of   Pleasure — 

It  dies  'midst  the  tears  of  the  cup. 

OH!  WHERE'S  THE  SLAVE. 

Oh!    Where's  the  slave  so  lowly, 

Condemn'd  to  chains  unholy, 

Who,  could  he  burst  his  bonds  at  first, 

Would   pine  beneath  them   slowly? 

What  soul,    whose  wrongs   degrade  it, 

Would  wait  till  time  decay'd  it, 

When  thus  its  wing  at  once  may  spring 

To  the  throne  of  Him  who  made  it? 

Farewell,  Erin,  farewell  all 

Who  live  to  weep  our  fall! 

Less  dear  the  laurel  growing, 

Alive,   untouch'd  and  blowing, 

Than  that,  whose  braid  is  plucked  to  shade 

The   brow   with   victory    glowing. 

We  tread  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Her  green  flag  glitters  o'er  us, 

The  friends  we've  tried  are  by  our  side 

And  the  foe  we  hate  before  us. 

Farewell,    Erin,   farewell    all 

Who  live  to  weep  our  fall! 


OH!  THINK  NOT  MY  SPIRITS. 

Oh!    think  not  my  spirits  are  always  as  light, 

And  as  free  from  a  pang,  as  they  seem  to  you  now, 
Nor  expect  that  the  heart-beaming  smile  of  to-night 

Will  return  with  to-morrow  to  brighten  my  brow. 
No — life  is  a  waste  of  wearisome  hours, 

Which  seldom  the  rose  of  enjoyment  adorns; 
And  the  heart  that  is  soonest  awake  to  the  flowers 

Is  always  the  first  to  be  touched  by  the  thorns. 
But  send  round  the  bowl,  and  be  happy  awhile — 

May  we  never  meet  worse,  in  our  pilgrimage  here, 
Than  the  tear  that  enjoyment  may  gild  with  a  smile, 

Or  the  smile  that  compassion  can  turn  to  a  tear! 

The  thread   of  our  life  would  be  dark,   Heaven  knows! 

If  it  were  not  with  friendship  and  love  intertwined; 
And  I  care  not  how  soon  I  may  sink  to  repose, 

When  these  blessings  shall  cease  to  be  dear  to  my  mind. 
But  they  who  have  loved  me  the  fondest,  the  purest, 

Too  often  have  wept  o'er  the  dream  they  believed; 
And  the  heart  that  has  slumbered  in  friendship  securest 

Is  happy  indeed  if  'twas  never  deceived. 
But  send  round  the  bowl:    while  a  relic  of  truth 

Is  in  man  or  in  woman,  this  prayer  shall  be  mine — 
That  the  sunshine  of  love  may  illumine  our  youth, 

And  the  moonlight  of  friendship  console  our  decline. 

OH,  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME! 

Oh,  breathe  not  his  name,  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade, 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark,  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,   though  In  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps, 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  it  secret  it  rolls. 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


46  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

OH,  SOON  RETURN. 

Our  white  sail   caught  the   evening  ray, 

The  wave  beneath  us  seemed  to  burn, 
When  all  my  weeping  love  could  say 

Was — "Oh,  soon  return!" 
Through  many  a  clime  our  ship  was  driven, 

O'er  many   a  billow  rudely  thrown, 
Now  chilled  beneath  a  northern  heaven, 

Now  sunned  by  summer's  zone. 
Yet  still  where'er  pur  course  we  lay, 

When  evening  bid  the  west  wave  burn, 
I  thought  I  heard  her  faintly  say— 

"Oh,    soon    return!" 
If  ever  yet  my  bosom  found 

Its  thoughts  a  moment  turned  from  thee, 
"Twas  then  the  combat  raged  around, 

And  brave  men  looked  to  me. 
But,   though   'mid  battle's  wild  alarm, 

Love's  gentle  power  might  not  appear 
He  gave  to  Glory's  brow  the  charm, 

That  made  even  danger  dear. 
And  when  the  vict'ry's  calm  came  o'er 

The  hearts  where  rage  had  ceased  to  burn, 
I  heard  that  farewell  voice  once  more — 

"Oh,    soon   return!" 

OH,   HAD  WE   SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE. 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 
In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone, 
Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming  bowers, 
And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers, 
Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause  with  so  fond  a  delay, 
That  the  night  only  draws  a  thin  veil  o'er  the  day; 
Where  simply  -to  feel  that  we  breathe,   that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give! 
There,  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 
We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  first  golden  time, 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,   and  ma'ke  all  summer  there. 
With  affection  as  free  from  decline  as  the  bowers. 
And  with  hope  like  the  bee,  living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light, 
And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 

ST.  SENANUS  AND  THE  LADY. 

St.   Senanus. 

"Oh,  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
Unholy  bark,  ere  morning  smile; 
For  on  thy  deck,  though  dark  it  be, 

A  female  form  I  see; 
And  I  have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
Shall  ne'er  by  woman's  feet  be  trod." 

The  Lady. 

"O  Father!    send  not  hence  my  bark, 
Through  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark 
I  come  with  humble  heart  to  share 

Thy  morn  and  evening  prayer: 
Nor  mine  the  feet,  O  holy  Saint, 
The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  taint." 
The  lady's  prayer  Sesanus  spurned; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  returned: 
But  legends  hint  that  had  the  maid 

Till  morning's  light  delayed. 
And  given  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 
She  ne'er  had  left  his  lonely  isle. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  47 

OH,   YES— SO   WELL,  SO   TENDERLY! 

Oh,  yes — so  well,  so  tenderly, 

Thou'rt  loved,  adored  by  me; 
Fame,  fortune,  wealth,  and  liberty, 

Are  worthless  without  thee! 
Though  brimmed  with  blisses  pure  and  rare, 

Life's  cup  before  me  lay, 
Unle:s  thy  love  were  mingled  there, 

I'd  spurn  the  draught  away. 
Without  thy  smile,  how  joylessly 

All  Glory's  meeds  I  see! 
And  even  the  wreath  of  Victory 

Must  owe  its  bloom  to  thee. 
Those  world  for  which  the  conq'ror  sighs, 

For  me  have  now  no  charms; 
My  only  world  those  radiant  eyes, 

My  only  throne  those  circling  arms! 

OH,   REMEMBER  THE   TIME! 

Oh,  remember  the  time  in  La  Mancha's  shades, 

When  our  moments  so  blissfully  flew; 
When  you  called  me  the  flower  of  Castilian  maids, 

And  I  blushed  to  be  called  so  by  you; 
When  I  taught  you  to  warble  the  gay  Seguadille, 

And  to  dance  to  the  light  Castanet: 
Oh,  never,  dear  youth,  let  you  roam  where  you  will, 

The  delight  of  those  moments  forget! 
They  tell  me  you  lovers  from  Erin's  green  isle 

Every  hour  a  new  passion  can  feel; 
And  that  soon,  in  the  light  of  some  lovelier  smile, 

You'll  forget  the  poor  maid  of  Castile. 
But  they  know  not  how  brave  in  the  battle  you  are. 

Or  they  never  could   think  you  would  rove; 
For  'tis  always  the  spirit  most  gallant  in  war 

That  is  fondest  and  truest  in  love. 


PRETTY  MAID  MILKING  HER  COW. 

It  being  on  a  fine  summer's  morning, 

As  birds  sweetly  tuned  on  each  bough, 
I  heard  a  fair  maid  sing  most  charming 

As  she  sat  milking  her  cow. 
Her  voice  was  enchanting— melodious. 

Which  left  me  scarce  able  to  go; 
My  heart  it  was  soothed  in  solace, 

By  the  pretty  maid  milking  her  cow. 
With  courtesy  I  did  salute  her: 

"Good-morrow,  most  amiable  maid; 
I  am  your  captive  slave  for  the  future." 

"Kind  sir,  do  not  banter,"  she  said. 
"I  am  not  such  a  precious  rare  jewel, 

That  I   should   enamor  you   so; 
I  am  but  a  plain  country  girl," 

Said  this  pretty  maid  milking  her  cow. 
"The  Indies  afford  no  such  jewel. 

So  precious  and  transparent  clear, 
Oh!    do  not  refuse  to  be  my  jewel, 

But  consent  and  love  me,  my  dear; 
Take  pity  and  grant  my  desire, 

And  leave  me  no  longer  in  woe; 
Oh!    love  me,  or  else  I'll  expire, 

Sweet  Colleen  dhas  cruthin  amoe." 
"I  don't  understand  what  you  mean,  sir; 

I  never  was  a  slave  yet  to  love; 
These  emotions   I   cannot  experience, 

So,  I  pray,  these  affections  remove; 


4S  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

To  marry,  I  can  assure  you, 

That  state  I  will  not  undergo, 
So,  young  man,  I  pray  you  will  excuse  me,' 

Said  this  pretty  maid  milking  her  cow. 
"Had  I  the  wealth  of  great  Omar, 

Or  all  on  the  African  shore; 
Or  had  I  great  Devonshire's  treasure, 

Or  had  I  ten  thousand  times  more, 
Or  had  I  the  lamp  of  Aladdin, 

And  had  I  his  genius,  also — 
I'd  rather  live  poor  on  a  mountain, 

With  colleen  dhas  cruthin  amoe." 
"I  beg  you,  withdraw,  and  don't  tease  ma, 

I  cannot  consent  unto  thee; 
I  prefer  to  live  single  and  airy, 

Till  more  of  the  world  I  see; 
New  cares  they   would  me   embarrass — 

Beside,  sir,  my  fortune  is  low: 
Until  I  get  rich  I'll  not  marry," 

Said  the  colleen  dhas  cruthin  amoe. 
"A  young  maid  is  like  a  ship  sailing, 

She  don't  know  how  long  she  may  steer, 
For  in  every  blast  she  is  in  danger, 

So  consent,  and  love  me,  my  dear. 
For  riches  I  care  not  a  farthing; 

Your  affections  I  want,  and  no  more; 
In  wedlock  I  wish  to  bind  you, 

Sweet  colleen  dhas  cruthin  amoe!" 


REMEMBER  THE  GLORIES  OF  BRIAN  THE  BRAVE. 

Remember  the  glories  of  Brian  the  brave, 

Though  the  days  of  the  hero  are  o'er; 
Though  lost  to  Mpnonia,   and  cold  in  the  grave, 

He  returns  to  Kinkora  no  more. 
That  star  of  the  field,  which  so  often  hath  poured 

Its  beam  on  the  battle,  is  set; 
But  enough  of  its  glory  remains  on  each  sword 

To  light  us  to  victory  yet. 
Mononia!  when  Nature  embellished  the  tint 

Of  thy  fields,  and  thy  mountains  so  fair, 
Did  she  ever  intend  that  a  tyrant  should  print 

The  footstep  of  slavery  there? 
No!    Freedom,  whose  smile  we  shall  never  resign, 

Go  tell  our  invaders,  the  Danes, 
That  'tis  sweeter  to  bleed  for  an  age  at  thy  shrine 

Than  to  sleep  but  a  moment  in  chains! 
Forget  not  our  wounded  companions,  who  stood 

In  the  day  of  distress  by  our  side; 
While  the  moss  of  the  valley  grew  red  with  their  blood, 

They  stirred  not,  but  conquered  and  died. 
The  sun  which  now  blesses  our  arms  with  his  light 

Saw   them  fall   upon   Osory's  plain, 
Oh!    let  him  not  blush,  when  he  leaves  us  to-night. 

To  find  that  they  fell  there  in  vain. 

OCH!  NORAH  DEAR. 

Och!    Norah  dear!    I'm  waiting  here, 

I'm  waiting  still  for  you,   love; 
And,  while  you   sleep,   the  flow'rets  weep, 

All  shrined  in  tears  of  dew,  love. 
The  silv'ry  moon,  its  bright  rays  soon 

Behind  the  hills  will  fade,  love; 
But  better  there  her  beauties  bear, 

For  thou  her  beams  would  shade,  love. 

Och!    Norah  dear,  »tc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  49 

Och!    Norah  dear!    I'm  waiting  here, 

The  stars  look  cold  and  blue,  love; 
Their  twinkling  rays  have  come  to  gaze 

To  see  how  bright  are  you,  love. 
The  breeze  that  brings  such  balmy  things 

From  all  that  bright  and  fair,  love, 
It  sighs  to  sip  from  thy  sweet  lip 

The  perfume  that  lies  there,  love. 


PASTHEEN  FION. 

Oh,  my  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight; 

Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright; 

Like  the  apple  blossom  her  bosom  white, 

And  her  neck  like  the  swan's  on  a  March  morn  bright! 

Then,  Oro,  come  with  me!    come  with  me!    come  with  me! 

Oro,  come  with  me!    brown  girl,  sweet! 

And,  oh!    I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl,  sweet! 

Love  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen! 

Her  cheeks  are  as  red  as  the  rose's  sheen, 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 

Than  the  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen! 

Then,  Oro,  come,  etc. 

Were  I  in  the  town,  where's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
'Tis  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly! 

Then,  Oro,  come,  etc. 
Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 
Betwixt  two  bushes,  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love  once  again; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain! 

Then,  Oro,  come,  etc. 

I'll  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe; 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world's  I'll  go; 
But  from  you,   sweetheart,  oh,   never!    oh,  no! 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin  stretched,  cold  and  low! 

Then,  Oro,  come,  etc. 

RORY  O'MORE. 

Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn: 

He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the  dawn; 

He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease, 

"Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye: 

"With  your  tricks,  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm  about, 

Faith,  you've  teazed  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out." 

"Oh,  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 

You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day: 

And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am;    and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 

For  it's  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"Indeed,   then,"  says  Kathleen,    "don't  think  of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike: 

The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 

"Faith,"  says  Rory,  "I'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground." 

"Now    Rory,  I'll  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go: 

Sure  I  dream  every  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!" 

"O!"  says  Rory,  "that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my  dear. 

"Oh!    jewel,   keep  dhraming  that  same  till  you  die. 

And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie; 

And  'tis  plazed  that  I  am;    and  why  not  to  be  sure? 

Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'Mora. 


50  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

"Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you've  teazed  me  enough, 

And  I've  thrash'd  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff, 

And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a  baste, 

So  1  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  praste." 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck; 

And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beaming  with  light, 

And  he  kiss'd  her  sweet  lips— Don't  you  think  he  was  right? 

"Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir — you'll  hug  me  no  more; 

That's  eight  times  to-day  that  you've  kissed  me  before." 

"Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "to  make  sure, 

For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 

SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 
She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking; 
Ah!    little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking. 
He  had  lived  for  his  love,   for  his  country  he  died, 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him; 
Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 

Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 
Oh!    make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  West, 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 


OFT  IN  THE  STILLY  NIGHT. 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me; 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  of  childhood's  years, 

The  words  of  love  then  spoken, 
The  eyes  that  shone,  now  dimmed  and  gone, 

The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken! 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night,  etc. 
When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so   linked   together, 
I've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  winter  weather, 
I  feel  like  one,  who  treads  alone 

Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled,  whose  garland's  dead, 

And  all  but  me  departed. 

Thus  in  the  stilly  night,  etc. 


THE   BELLS   OF  SHANDON. 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection, 

I  often  think  of  the  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder  where'er  I  wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee! 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That   sound   so   grand   on 

The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee! 
I  have  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  In, 

Toiling  sublime,  in  cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate,  brass  tongues  would  vibrate, 

But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  to  thine! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  51 

For  memory  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling  its  bold  note*  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound   far   more  grand   on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee! 

I  have  heard  bells  tolling  "old  Adrian's  mole"  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican: 
With  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 

In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly! 
Oh!     the   bells    of   Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee! 

There's  a  bell  in  Moscow,  while  on  tower  and  kioako, 

In  Saint  Sophia,  the  Turcoman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air  calls  men  to  prayer 

From  the  tapering  summits  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  them; 
And  thus  grow  fonder,  sweet  Cork,  of  thee! 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee! 

THE  RECONCILIATION. 

An  old  man  knelt  at  the  altar, 

His  enemy's  hand  to  take. 
And  at  first  his  weak  voice  did  falter, 

And  his  feeble  limbs  did  shake; 
For  his  only  brave  boy,  his  glory, 

Had  been  stretch'd  at  the  old  man's  feet, 
A  corpse,  all  so  haggard  and  gory, 

By  the  hand  which  he  now  must  greet 

And  soon  the  old  man  stopp'd  speaking, 

And  rage  which  had  not  gone  by, 
From  under  his  brows  came  breaking 

Up  into  his  enemy's  eye — 
And  now  his  limbs  were  not  shaking, 

But  his  clinch'd  hands  his  bosom  cross'd, 
And  he  looked  a  fierce  wish  to  be  taking 

Revenge  for  the  boy  he  lost. 

But  the  old  man  he  glanced  around  him. 

And  thought  of  the  place  he  was  in, 
And  thought  of  the  promise  that  bound  him, 

And  thought  that  revenge  was  sin — 
And  then,  crying  tears,  like  a  woman, 

"Your  hand!"  he  cried,  "ay,  that  hand, 
And   I   do  forgive  you,   foeman, 

For  the  sake  of  our  bleeding  land!" 


MARY  AILEEN. 

Lying  by  the  little  grave,  Mary  Aileen, 
One  sweet  word  is  all  I  crave,   Mary  Aileen! 
Wilt  thou  hear  me  in  my  woe? 
Wilt  thou  answer  soft  and  low? 
Canct  thou  speak  a  little?    No,  Mary  Aileen! 
CHORUS.— Mary  Aileen!    Mary  Aileen! 

Canst  thou  speak  a  little?    No,  Mary  Aileen! 

Midst  the  flowers  now  I'm  speaking,  Mary  Aileen; 

Canst  thou  hear  my  voice  below,  Mary  Aileen? 

Here  till  morning  will   I  lie — 

Here  to-night  I  fain  would  die, 

And  to  thee  be  ever  nigh,  Mary  Aileen. 

Choru*. 


62  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Every  night  upon  thy  grave,  Mary  Aileen, 

Shall  my  tears  to  sweet  flowers  lave,  Mary  Aileen! 

I  will  whisper — "Art  thou  mine?" 

Thou   wilt  answer — "Ever  thine!" 

Death  but  makes  our  love  divine,  Mary  Aileen! 

Chorus. 


SAVOTJKNEEN  DEELISH. 

Ah!    the  moment  was  sad   when  my  love  and   I  parted — 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
As  I  kissed  off  her  tears  I  was  nigh  broken-hearted — 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
Wan  was  her  cheek  which  hung  on  my  shoulder- 
Damp  was  her  hand,  no  marble  was  colder; 
I  felt  that  again  I  should  never  behold  her. 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
When  the  word  of  command  put  our  men  into  motion, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
I  buckled  my  knapsack  to  cross  the  wide  ocean, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
Brisk  were  our  troops,  all  roaring  like  thunder, 
Pleased  with  the  voyage,  impatient  for  plunder, 
My  bosom  with  grief  was  almost  torn  asunder. 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
Long  I  fought  for  my  country,  far,  far  from  my  true  love — 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
All  my  pay  and  my  booty  I  hoarded  for  you,  love, 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 
Peace  was  proclaimed — escaped  from  the  slaughter, 
Landed  at  home,  my  sweet  girl  I  sought  her; 
But  sorrow,  alas!    to  the  cold  grave  had  brought  her. 

Savourneen  deelish  Eileen  oge! 


SHAMUS  O'BRIEN. 

•Oh!    sweet  is  the  smile  of  the  beautiful  morn, 

As  it  peeps  through  the  curtain  of  night, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  singing  his  tune. 

While  the  stars  seem  to  smile  with  delight. 
Old  nature  now  lingers  in  silent  repose, 

And  the  sweet  breath  of  summer  is  calm, 
While  I  sit  and  wonder  if  Shamus  e'er  knows 

How  sad  and  unhappy  I  am! 
CHORUS.— Oh!    Shamus  O'Brien,  why  don't  you  come  home, 

You  don't  know  how  happy  I'll  be; 
I've  but  one  darling  wish,  and  that  is  that  you'd  come 

And  forever  be  happy  with  me! 

I'll  smile  when  you  smile,  and  I'll  weep  when  you  weep, 

I'll  give  you  a  kiss  for  a  kiss, 
And  all  the  fond  vows  that  I've  made  you,  I'll  keep — 

What  more  can  I  promise  than  this? 
Does  the  sea  have  such  bright  and  such  beautiful  charms 

That  your  heart  will  not  leave  it  for  me? 
Oh!    why  did  I  let  you  go  out  of  my  arms, 

Like  a  bird  that  was  caged  and  is  free! 

Oh!    Shamus  O'Brien,  etc. 

Oh!    Shamus  O'Brien,   I'm  loving  you  yet, 

And  my  heart  is  still  trusting  and  kind; 
It  was  you  who  first  took  it,  and  can  you  forget 

That  love  for  another  you'd  find? 
No!    no!    if  you  break  it  with  sorrow  and  pain, 

I'll  then  have  a  duty  to  do; 
If  you'll  bring  it  to  me,  I'll  mend  it  again, 

And  trust  it,  dear  Shamus,  to  you. 

Oh!    Shamus  O'Brien,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  63 

SUBLIME  WAS  THE  WARNING. 

Sublime  was  the  warning  which  Liberty  spoke, 

And   grand   was   the   moment   when   the    Spaniards   awoke 

Into  life  and  revenge  from  the  conqueror's  chain! 
Oh!    Liberty!    let  not  this  spirit  have  rest 
Till  it  moves  like  a  breeze  o'er  the  waves  of  the  west. 
Give  the  light  of  your  look  to  each  sorrowing  spot, 
Nor,  oh!    be  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  forgot, 

While  you  add  to  your  garland  the  Olive  of  Spain! 
If  the  fame  of  our  fathers,  bequeathed  with  their  rights, 
Give  to  country  its  charm  and  to  home  its  delights; 
If  deceit  be  a  wound  and  suspicion  a  stain; 
Then,  ye  men  of  Iberia,  our  cause  is  the  same. 
And,  oh!    may  his  tomb  want  a  tear  and  a  name, 
Who  would  ask  for  a  nobler,  a  holier  death 
Than  to  turn  his  last  sigh  into  victory's  breath. 

For  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain! 
Ye  Blakee  and  O'Donnells,   whose  fathers  resigned 
The  green  hills  of  their  youth,  among  strangers  to  find 

That  repose  which  at  home  they  had  sighed  for  in  vain, 
Join,  join  in  our  hope  that  the  flame  which  you  light 
May  be  felt  in  Erin,  as  calm  and  as  bright; 
And  forgive  even   Albion   while   she  draws, 
Like  a  truant,  her  sword  in  the  long-slighted  cause 

Of  the  Shamrock  of  Erin  and  Olive  of  Spain! 
God  prosper  the  cause,  oh!    it  cannot  but  thrive 
While  the  pulse  of  one  patriot  heart  is  alive 

Its  devotion  to  feel,  and  its  rights  to  maintain:        t 
Then  how  sainted  by  sorrow  its  martyrs  will  die! 
The  finger  of  glory  shall  point  where  they  lie; 
While  far  from  the  footsteps  of  coward  or  slave, 
The  young  spirit  of  Freedom  shall  shelter  their  grave, 

Beneath  Shamrocks  of  Erin  and  Olives  of  Spain! 


MY   GRAVE. 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  deep, 

Where    wind-forgetting    waters    sleep? 

Shall  they  dig  a  grave  for  me 

Under   the   green-wood  tree? 

Or  on  the  wild  heath, 

Where   the  wilder   breath 

Of  the  storm  doth  blow? 

O,  no!     O,  no! 

Shall  they  bury  me  in  the  palace  tombs, 

Or  under  the  shade  of  cathedral  domes? 

Sweet  'twere  to  lie  on  Italy's  shore; 

Yet  not  there, — nor  in  Greece,   though   I  love  it  more, 

In  the  wolf  or  the  vulture  my  grave  shall  I  find? 

Shall  my  ashes  career  on  the  world-seeing  wind? 

Shall  they  fling  my  corpse  in  the  battle-mound, 

Where  comnless  thousands  lie  under  the  gronnd? 

Just  as  they  fall,  they  are  buried  so, — 

O,   no!     O.  no! 

No!    On  an  Irish  green  hillside, 

On  an  opening  lawn, — but  not  too  wide! 

For  I  love  the  drip  of  the  wetted  trees; 

I  love  not  the  gales,  but  a  gentle  breeze 

To  freshen  the  turf.    Put  no  tombstone  there, 

But  green  sods  decked  with  daisies  fair, 

Nor  sods  too  deep;    but  so  that  the  dew 

The  matted  grass-roots  may   trickle  through. 

Be  my  epitaph  writ  on  my  country's  mind, — 

"He  served  his  country,  and  loved  his  kind." 

Op!     'Twere  merry  unto  the  grave  to  go, 

If  one  were  sur§  to  be  buried  so. 


54  HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 

SWEET  KITTY  NEIL. 

Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise'  up  from  your  wheel, 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  of  spinning: 
Come,  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore  tree, 

Half  the  parish  is  there  and  the  dance  is  beginning. 
The  sun  has  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest  moon 

Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened  valley; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving  things 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded  valley, 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded  valley. 
With  a  blush  and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  up,  the  while 

Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair,  glancing; 
'Tin  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover  sues, 

So  she  could  not  choose  but  go  off  to  the  dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  troops  are  seen, 

Each  gay-hearted  lad  with   the  lass  of  his  choosing, 
And  Pat,  without  fail,  led  out  sweet  Kitty  Neil, 

Somehow  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought  of  refusing, 

Somehow  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought  of  refusing. 

THE  FORTUNE  TELLER. 

Down  In  the  valley  come  meet  me  to-night, 

And  I  will  tell  you  your  fortune  truly 
As  ever  was  told,  by  the  new  moon's  light, 

To  a  young  maiden,  shining  as  newly. 
But,  for  the  world,  let  no  one  be  nigh, 

Lest  haply  the  stars  should  deceive  me: 
Such  secrets  between  you  and  me  and  the  sky 

Should  never  go  farther,  believe  me. 
If  at  that  hour  the  heavens  be  not  dim, 

My  science  shall  call  up  before  you 
A  male  apparition — the  image  of  him 

Whose  destiny  it  is  to  adore  you. 
And  if  to  that  phantom  you  will  be  kind, 

So  fondly  around  you  he'll  hover, 
You'll  hardly,  my  dear,  any  difference  find 

'Twixt  him  and  a  true,  living  lover! 
Down  at  your  feet  in  the  pale  moonlight 

He'll  kneel,  with  a  warmth  of  devotion — 
An  ardor,   of  which  such  an  innocent  sprite 

You'd  scarcely  believe  had  a  notion! 
What  other  thoughts  and  events  may  arise, 

As  in  Destiny's  book  I've  not  seen  them, 
Must  only  be  left  to  the  stars  and  your  eyes 

To  settle,  ere  morning,  between  them. 

THE  IRISH  PEASANT  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Through  grief  and  through  danger  thy  smile  hath  cheered  my  way. 

Till  hope  seemed  to  bud  from  each  thorn  that  round  me  lay; 

The  darker  our  fortune,  the  brighter  our  pure  love  burned. 

Till  shame  into  glory,  till  fear  into  zeal,  was  turned: 

Yes,  slave  as  I  was,  in  thy  arms  my  spirit  felt  free, 

And  blest  even  the  sorrows  that  made  me  more  dear  to  tbee. 

Thy  rival  was  honored,  whilst  thou  wert  wronged  and  scorned; 

Thy  crown  was  of  briers,  while  gold  her  brows  adorned; 

She  wooed  me  to  temples,  while  thou  layest  hid  in  caves; 

Her  friends  were  all  masters,  while  thine,  alas!    were  slaves; 

Yet  cold  in  the  earth,  at  thy  feet,  I  would  rather  be 

Than  wed  what  I  love  not,  or  turn  one  thought  from  thee. 

They  slander  thee  sorely,   who  say  thy  vows  are  frail — 

Hadst  thou  been  a  false  one,  thy  cheek  had  looked  less  pale! 

They  say,  too,  so  long  thou  hast  worn  those  lingering  chains, 

That  deep  in  thy  heart  they  have  printed  their  servile  stains. 

Oh,  foul  is  the  slander — no  chain  could  that  soul  subdue — 

Where  Bhlneth  thy  spirit,  there  liberty  shineth,  too! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  65 

TAKE   BACK   THE    VIRGIN   PAGE. 

Take  back  the  virgin  page, 

White  and  unwritten  still; 
Some  hand,  more  calm  and  sage, 

The  leaf  must  fill. 
Thoughts  come  as  pure  as  light, 

Pure  as  even  you  require; 
But  oh,  each  word  I  write 

Love  turns  to  fire! 

Yet  let  me  keep  the  book; 

Oft  shall  my  heart  renew, 
When  on  its  leaves  I  look, 

Dear  thoughts  of  you. 
Like  you,  'tis  fair  and  bright; 

Like  you,  too  bright  and  fair 
To  let  wild  Passion  write 

One  wrong  wish  there. 

Haply,  -when  from  those  eyes 

Far,  far  a  way.  I  roam, 
Should  calmer  thoughts  arise 

Toward  you  and  home — 
Fancy  may  trace  some  line 

Worthy  those  eyes  to  meet; 
Thoughts  that  not  burn,  but  shine, 

Pure,  calm  and  sweet. 

And  as,  o'er  ocean  far, 

Seamen  their  records  keep, 
Led  by  some  hidden  star 

Through   the   cold   deep; 
So  may  the  words  I  write 

Tell  through  what  storms  I  stray — 
You  still  the  unseen  light, 

Guiding  my  way. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  SPRITE. 

In  yonder  valley  there  dwelt,  alone, 

A  youth,  whose  moments  had  calmly  flown, 

Till  spells  came  o'er  him,  and,  day  and  night, 

He  was  haunted  and  watched  by  a  Mountain  Sprite. 

As  once,  by  moonlight,  he  wandered  o'er 

The  golden  sands  of  that  island  shore, 

A  footprint  sparkled  before  his  sight— 

'Twas  the  fairy  foot  of  the  Mountain  Sprite! 

Beside  a  fountain,  one  sunny  day, 

As  bending  over  the  stream  he  lay, 

There  peeped  down  o'er  him  two  eyes  of  light. 

And  he  saw  in  that  mirror  the  Mountain  Sprite! 

He  turned,  but  lo!    like  a  startled  bird. 

That  spirit  fled!— and  the  youth  but  heard 

Sweet  music,  such  as  marks  the  flight 

Of  some  bird  of  song,  from  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

One  night,  still  haunted  by  that  bright  look, 

The  boy,  bewildered,  his  pencil  took, 

And,    guided  only  by  memory's   light, 

Drew  the  once-seen  form  of  the  Mountain  Sprite. 

"O  thou,  who  lovest  the  shadow,"  cried 

A  voice,  low  whispering  by  his  side, 

"Now  turn  and  see!" — here  the  youth's  delight 

Sealed  the  rosy  lips  of  the  Mountain  Sprite! 

"Of  all  the  Spirits  of  land  and  sea," 

Then  rapt,  he  murmured,  "there's  none  like  thee, 

And  oft,  oh  oft,  may  thy  foot  thus  light 

In  this  lonely  bower,  sweet  Mountain  Sprite!" 


56  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  DEAR  IRISH  BOY. 

My  Connor  his  cheeks  are  as  ruddy  as  morning, 

The  brightest  of  pearls  but  mimic  his  teeth, 
While  nature  with  ringlets  his  mild  brow  adorning. 

His  hair  Cupid's  bowstrings,  and  roses  his  breath. 
CHORUS. — Smiling,  beguiling,  cheering,  endearing, 

Together  oft  over  the  mountain  we've  strayed, 
By  each  other  delighted,  and  fondly  united, 

I've  listened  all  day  to  my  dear  Irish  boy. 
No  roebuck  more  swift  can  flee  o'er  the  mountain, 

No  veterp  •  bolder  'midst  danger  or  scars; 
He's  sightly ,  he's  lightly,  he's  as  clear  as  the  fountain, 

His  eyes  t ,.  inkle  love,  but  he's  gone  to  the  wars. 

Smiling,  etc. 
The  soft  tun  ng  lark  its  notes  change  to  mourning, 

The  dull  screaming  owl  doth  invade  my  night  sleep; 
While  lonely  I  walk  in  the  shades  of  the  evening. 

If  my  Connor  return  not,  I'll  ne'er  cease  to  weep. 

Smiling,  etc. 
The  war  is  all  over,  and  he  is  not  returning; 

I  fear  that  some  envious  plot  has  been  laid, 
Or  some  cruel  goddess  has  him  captivated, 

And  left  me  to  mourn,  a  dear  Irish  maid. 

Smiling,  etc. 

THE  BARD'S  LEGACY. 

When  in  death  I  shall  calm  recline, 

Oh,  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear; 
Tell  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  the  brightest  hue,  while  it  lingered  here; 
Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow. 

To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light; 
But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 

To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall; 
Hang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door, 

Where  weary  travellers  love  to  call; 
Then   if  some  bard,   who  roams  forsaken, 

Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 
Oh,  let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 

Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song! 

Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I'm  at  rest; 
Never,  oh!    never  its  balm  bestowing 

On  lips  that   beauty   hath  seldom  blest; 
But  when  some  warm,   devoted  lover 

To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 
Then,  then  my  spirit  around  shall  hover, 

And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 


STRIKE    THE    GAY   HARP. 

Strike  the  gay  harp!— see,  the  moon  is  on  high; 

And,  as  true  to  her  beam  as  the  tides  of  the  ocean, 
Young  hearts,  when  they  feel  the  soft  light  of  her  eye, 

Obey  the  mute  call,  and  heave  into  motion. 
Then  sound,  notes — the  gayest,  the  lightest, 
That  ever  took  wing,  when  heaven  looked  brightest! 

Again!     again! 
Oh,  could  such  heart-stirring  music  be  heard 

In  that  City  of  Statues  described  by  romancers, 
So  wakening  its  spell,  even  stone  would  be  stirred, 

And  statues  themselves  all  start  into  dancers! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  57 

Why  then  delay,  with  such  sounds  in  our  ears, 

And  the  flower  of  Beauty's  own  garden  before  us — 
While  stars  overhead   leave  the  song  of  their  spheres, 

And,  list'ning  to  ours,  hang  wondering  o'er  us? 
Again,  that  strain!— to  hear  it  thus  sounding 
Might  set  even  Death's  cold  pulses  bounding — 

Again!     again! 
Oh,  what  delight  when  the  youthful  and  gay, 

Each  with  eye  like  a  sunbeam  and  foot  like  a  feather, 
Thus  dance,  like  the  Hours,  to  the  music  of  May, 

And  mingle  sweet  song  and  sunshine  together! 

THE  SONG  OF  WAR. 

The  song  of  war  shall  echo  through  our  mountains, 

Till  not  one  hateful  link  remains 

Of  slavery's  ling'ring  chains — 

Till  not  one  tyrant  treads  our  plains, 
Nor  traitor  lip  pollutes  our  fountains! 

No,  never  till  that  glorious  day,          , 

Shall  Lusitania's  sons  be  gay, 

Or  hear,  O  Peace,  thy  welcome  lay 
Resounding  through  her  sunny  mountains! 
The  song  of  war  shall  echo  through  our  mountains, 

Till  Victory's  self  shall  smiling  say, 

"Your  cloud  of  foes  hath  passed  away, 

And  Freedom  comes,  with  new-born  ray, 
To  gild  your  vines  and  light  your  fountains!" 

Oh,  never  till  that  glorious  day, 

Shall  Lusitania's  sons  be  gay, 
'    Or  hear,  O  Peace,  thy  welcome  lay 
Resounding  through  her  sunny  mountains! 

THE  HARP  OF  TARA. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed, 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise, 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 
No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells: 
The  chord  alone,  that  breaks  at  night, 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes — 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart,  indignant,  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


THE   MINSTREL   BOY. 

The  Minstrel  Boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you'll  find  him; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"Land  of  song!"  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee!" 

The  Minstrel  fell! — but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under; 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder, 
And  said,  "No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  pure  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery!" 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  VALLEY  LAY  SMILING  BEFORE  ME. 

The  valley  lay  smiling  before  me, 

Where  lately  I  left  her  behind; 
Yet  I  trembled,  and  something  hung  o'er  me 

That  saddened  the  joy  of  my  mind. 
I  looked  for  the  lamp  which,  she  told  me, 

Should  shine,  when  her  pilgrim  returned; 
But,  though  darkness  began  to  infold  me, 

No  lamp  from  the  battlements  burned. 
I  flew  to  her  chamber — 'twas  lonely, 

As   if  the  loved  tenant  lay  dead; — 
Ah,  would  it  were  death,  and  death  only! 

But  no,  the  young  false  one  had  fled. 
And  there  hung  the  lute  that  could  soften 

My  very  worst  pains  into  bliss; 
While  the  hand  that  had  waked  it  so  often 

Now  throbbed  to  a  proud  rival's  kiss. 
There  was  a  time,  falsest  of  women! 

When   Breffni's  good  sword  would   have   sought 
That  man,   through  a  million  of  foemen, 

Who  dared  but  to  wrong  thee  in  thought! 
While  now — oh,  degenerate  daughter 

Of  Erin,  how  fallen  is  thy  fame! 
And  through  ages  of  bondage  and  slaughter, 

Our  country  shall  bleed  for  thy  shame. 
Already  the  curse  is  upon  her, 

And  strangers  her  valleys  profane; 
They  come  to  divide — to  dishonor, 

And  tyrants  they  long  will  remain. 
But  onward!    the  green  banner  rearing, 

Go,  flesh  every  sword  to  the  hilt; 
On  our  side  is  Virtue  and  Erin, 

On  theirs  the  Saxon  and  Guilt! 


THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,   love; 
The  glowworm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love; 

How  sweet  to  rove  through  Morna's  grove, 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love! 
Then  awake! — the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear; 
'Tls  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear: 

And  the  best  of  all  ways  to  lengthen  our  days, 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear! 
Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 
But  the  Sage,  his  star- watch  keeping,  love, 

And  I,  whose  star,  more  glorious  far, 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake! — till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we'll  shun,  my  dear; 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight  of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear! 


THOUGH  THE  LAST  GLIMPSE  OF  ERIN. 

Though  the  last  glimpse  of  Erin  with  sorrow  I  see. 
Yet  wherever  thou  art  shall  seem  Erin  to  me; 
In  exile  thy  bosom  shall  still  be  my  home, 
And  thine  eyes  make  my  climate  wherever  we  roam. 
To  the  gloom  of  some  desert  or  cold  rocky  shore, 
Where  the  eye  of  the  stranger  can  haunt  us  no  more, 
I  will  fly  with  my  Coulin,  and  think  the  rough  wind 
Less  rude  than  the  foes  we  leave  frowning  behind. 
And  I'll  gaze  on  thy  gold  hair,  as  graceful  it  wreathes, 
And  hang  o'er  thy  soft  harp,  as  wildly  it  breathes; 
Nor  dread  that  the  cold-hearted  Saxon  will  tear 
One  chord  from  that  harp,  or  one  lock  from  that  hair. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  59 

THE  TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN  WOOING. 

The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing, 

In    watching   and   pursuing 
The  light  that  lies  in  woman's  eyes, 

Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 

Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 

I  scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me; 
My  only  books  were  woman's  looks, 

And  folly's  all  they've  taught  me! 

Her  smile,  when  Beauty  granted, 

I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted. 
Like  him  the   Sprite  whom   maids  by  night 

Oft  meet  in  glen  that's  haunted. 

Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me, 

But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 
If  once  their  ray  was  turned  away, 

Oh,  winds  could  not  outrun  me! 

And  are  those  follies  going? 

And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 
Too  cold  or  wise  for  brilliant  eyes 

Again  to  set  it  glowing? 

No — vain,    alas!     the   endeavor 

From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever: — 
Poor  Wisdom's  chance  against  a  glance 

Is  now  as  weak  as  ever! 


THIS   LIFE  IS  ALL   CHEQUERED. 

This  life  is  all  chequered  with  pleasures  and  woes, 

That  chase  one  another  like  waves  of  the  deep — 
Each  brightly  or  darkly,   as  onward  it  flows, 

Reflecting  our  eyes,  as  they  sparkle  or  weep. 
So  closely  our  whims  on  our  miseries  tread, 

That  the  laugh  is  awaked  ere  the  tear  can  be  dried; 
And,  as  fast  as  the  rain-drop  of  Pity  is  shed, 

The  goose-plumage  of   Folly  can  turn  it  aside. 
But  pledge  me  the  cup — if  existence  would  cloy, 

With  hearts  ever  happy  and  heads  ever  wise, 
Be  ours  the  light  Sorrow,  half-sister  to  Joy, 

Aud   the   light,    brilliant   Folly,    that   flashes  and   dies. 
When  Hylas  was  sent  with  his  urn  to  the  fount, 

Through   fields    full    of   light,    with  heart   full   of  play, 
Light  rambled  the  boy,  over  meadow  and  mount, 

And  neglected  his  task  for  the  flowers  on  the  way. 
Thus  many,  like  me,  who  in  youth  should  have  tasted 

The  fountain  that  rur.'S  by  Philosophy's  shrine, 
Their   time   with    the   flowers   on   the   margin    have   wasted, 

And  left  their  light  urns  all  as  empty  as  mine. 
But  pledge  me  the  goblet — while  Idleness  weaves 

These  flowerets  together,   should  Wisdom  but  see 
One  bright   drop   or  two  that  has  fallen  on  the  leaves, 

From  her  fountain  divine,   'tis  sufficient  for  me. 

THE  LAST  ROSE   OF  SUMMER. 

'Tis  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer,  left  blooming  alone; 
All  her  lovely  companions  are  faded  and  gone; 
No  flower  of  her  kindred,  no  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes — to  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I'll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one,  to  pine  on  the  stem; 
Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping,  go  sleep  thou  with  them; 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter  thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden  lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow,  when  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle  the  gems  drop  away! 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered,  and  fond  ones  are  flown, 
Oh,   who  would  inhabit  this  bleak  world  alone? 


60  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE   ORIGIN  OF  THE  HARP. 

'Tis  believed  that  this  Harp,  which  I  wake  now  for  thee, 
Was  a  Siren  of  old,  who  sung  under  the  sea; 
And  who  often,  at  eve,  through  the  bright  waters  roved, 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a  youth  whom  she  loved. 
But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears,  all  the  night,  her  gold  tresses  to  steep, 
Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm, 
And  changed  to  this  soft  Harp  the  sea-maiden's  form. 
Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheeks  smiled  the  same — 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  formed  the  light  frame; 
And  her  hair,  as,  let  loose,  o'er  her  white  arm  it  fell, 
Was  changed  to  bright  chords,  uttering  melody's  spell. 
Hence  it  came,  that  this  soft  Harp  so  long  hath  been  known 
To  mingle  Love's  language  with  Sorrow's  sad  tone; 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  speak  love  when  I'm  near  thee,  and  grief  when  away! 

THE  YOUNG  ROSE. 

The  young  rose  which  I  gave  thee,  so  dewy  and  bright, 
Was  the  flow'ret  most  dear  to  the  sweet  bird  of  night, 
Who  oft  by  the  moonlight  o'er  her  blushes  hath  hung, 
And  thrilled  every  leaf  with  the  wild  lay  he  sung. 
Oh,  take  thou  this  young  rose,  and  let  her  life  be 
Prolonged  by  the  breath  she  will  borrow  from  thee; 
For  while  o'er  her  bosom  thy  soft  notes  shall  thrill, 
She'll  think  the  sweet  night-bird  is  courting  her  still. 


TO  LADIES'  EYES. 

To  ladies'   eyes  a  round,   boy, 

We  can't  refuse,  we  can't  refuse, 
Though  bright  eyes  so  abound,  boy, 

'Tis  hard  to  choose,  'tis  hard  to  choose; 
For  thick  as  stars  that  lighten 

Yon 'airy  bowers,  yon  airy  bowers, 
The  countless  eyes  that  brighten 

This  earth  of  ours,  this  earth  of  ours. 
But  fill  the  cup — where'er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all,  so  drink  them  all! 
Some  looks  there  are  so  holy, 

They  seeni  but  given,  they  seem  but  given, 
As  shining  beacons,  solely, 

To  light  to  heaven,  to  light  to  heaven. 
While  some — oh,  ne'er  believe  them — 

With  tempting  ray,  with  tempting  ray, 
Would  lead  us  (God  forgive  them!) 

The  other  way,  the  other  way. 
But  fill  the  cup — where'er,  boy, 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all,  so  drink  them  all! 
In  some,  as  in  a  mirror, 

Love  seems  portrayed,  Love  seems  portrayed- 
But  shun  the  flattering  error — 

'Tis  but  his  shade,  'tis  but  his  shade; 
Himself  has  fixed  his  dwelling 

In  eyes  we  know,  in  eyes  we  know, 
And  lips — but  this  is  telling — 

So  here  they  go,  so  here  they  go! 
Fill  up,  fill  up — where'er,  boy. 

Our  choice  may  fall,  our  choice  may  fall, 
We're  sure  to  find  Love  there,  boy, 

So  drink  them  all,  so  drink  them  all! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  61 

'TIS  GONE,  AND  FOREVER. 

"Tis  gone,  and  forever,  the  light  we  saw  breaking, 

Like  Heaven's  first  dawn  o'er  the  sleep  of  the  dead — 
When   Man,   from  the  slumber  of  ages  awaking, 

Looked  upward,  and  blest  the  pure  ray,  ere  it  fled. 
'Tis  gone,  and  the  gleams  it  has  left  of  its  burning 
But  deepen  the  long  night  of  bondage  and  mourning, 
That  dark  o'er  the  kingdoms  of  earth  is  returning, 

And  darkest  of  all,   hapless  Erin,   o'er  thee-! 
For  high  was  iny  hope,  when  those  glories  were  danting 

Around  thee  through  all  the  gross  clouds  of  the  world, 
When  Truth,   from  her  fetters   indignantly  starting, 

At  once  like  a  sunburst  her  banner  unfurled! 
Oh,    never   shall  earth  see  a  momefit  so  splendid! — 
Then — then — had    one    hymn    of    deliverance    blended 
The  tongues  of  all  nations — how  sweet  had  ascended 

The  first  note  of  Liberty,  Erin,  from  thee! 
But  shame  on  those  tyrants  who  envied  the  blessing! 

And  shame  on  the  light  race  unworthy  its  good, 
Who,  at  Death's  reeking  altar,   like  furies  caressing 

The  young  hope  of  Freedom,  baptized  it  in  blood! 
Then  vanished  forever  that  fair,   sunny  vision, 
Which,  spite  of  the  slavish,  the  cold  heart's  derision, 
Shall  long  be  remembered,  pure,  bright,  and  elysian 

As  first  it  arose,  my  lost  Erin,  on  thee! 

'TIS  SWEET   TO   THINK. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think  that,  where'er  we  rove, 

We  are  sure  to  find  something  blissful  and  dear, 
And  that  when  we're  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near! 
The  heart,  like  a  tendril,  accustomed  to  cling, 

Let  it  grow  where  it  will,   cannot  flourish  alone, 
But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing 

It  can  twine  in  itself,  and  make  closely  its  own. 
Then  oh,  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something  still  that  is  dear, 
And  to  know,  when   far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near! 
'Twere  a  shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise, 

To  make  light  of  the  rest,  if  the  rose  isn't  there; 
And  the  world's  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 

'Twere  a  pity  to  limit  one's  love  to  a  pair. 
Lpve's  wing  and  the  peacock's  are  nearly  alike, 

They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  they're  changeable,  too, 
And  wherever  a  new  beam  of  beauty  can  strike, 

It  will  tincture  Love's  plume  with  a  different  hue. 
Then  oh,  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  sure  to  find  something  still  that  is  dear, 
And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We've  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near! 


THE  WIDOW'S  MESSAGE. 

"Remember,    Dennis,    all   I   bade  you   say; 

Tell  him  we're  well  and  happy,  thank  the  Lord, 
But   of  our   troubles,    since   he   went   away, 
You'll  mind,   avick,   and  never  say   a   word; 

Of  cares  and  troubles,  sure,  we've  all  our  share. 
The  finest  summer  isn't  always  fair. 
"Tell  him  the  spotted  heifer  calved  In  May: 

She  died,  poor  thing;  but  that  you  needn't  mind; 
Nor  how  the  constant  rain   destroyed   the  hay: 
But  tell  him  God  to  us  was  ever  kind, 

And  when  the  fever  spread  the  country  o'er. 
His  mercy  kept  the  'sickness'   from  our  door. 

I 


62  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

"Be   sure  you   tell   him   how  the  neighbors  came 

And  cut  the  corn  and  stored  it  in  the  barn; 
'Twould  be  as  well  to  mention  them  by  name — 
Pat   Murphy,    Ned   M'Cabe,    and   James   M'Carn, 
And  big  Tim  Daly  from  behind   the  hill; 
But  say,  agra—  Oh,  say  I  missed  him  still. 

"They  came  with  ready  hands  our  toil  to  share— 

"Twas  then  I  missed  him  most— my  own  right  hand; 
I  felt,  although  kind  hearts  were  round  me  there, 
The  kindest  heart  beat  in  a  foreign   land. 

Strong  hand!  brave  h?art!  oh,  severed  far  from  me 
By  many  a  weary  league  of  shore  and  sea. 

"And   tell  him  she  was  with  us— he'll   know  who: 

Mavourneen,   hasn't  she  the  winsome  eyes, 
The  darkest,   deepest,   brightest,   bonniest  blue, 
I  ever  saw  except  in  summer  skies. 

And  such  black  hair!  it  is  the  blackest  hair 
That  ever  rippled  over  neck  so  fair. 

"Tell  him  old  Pincher  fretted  many  a  day, 

And  moped,  poor  dog,  'twas  well  he  didn't  die, 
Crouched  by  the  roadside  how  he  watched  the  way, 
And  sniffed  the  travelers  as  they  passed  him  by — 
Hail,  rain,  or  sunshine,  sure  'twas  all  the  same, 
He  listened  for  the  foot  that  never  came. 

"Tell  him  the  house  is  lonesome-llke  and  cold, 
The   fire  itself  seems  robbed  of  half  its  light; 
But,  maybe,  'tis  my  eyes  are  growing  old, 
And  things  look  dim  before  my  failing  sight. 

For  all   that,  tell  him   'twas  myself   that  spun 
The  shirts  you  bring,  and  stitched  them  every  one. 

"Give  him  my  blessing,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

Tell  him  my  prayers  are  offered  for  his  good, 
That  he  may  keep  his  Maker  still  in  sight, 
And  firmly  stand,   as  his  brave  father  stood, 
True  to  his  name,  his  country,  and  his  God, 
Faithful  at  home,  and  steadfast  still  abroad." 


THE   MEN  OF   TIPPERARY. 

Let  Britain  boast  her  British  hosts, 
About  them  all  right  little  care  we; 

Not  British  seas,  nor  British  coasts, 
Can  match  The  Man  of  Tipperary. 

Tall  is  his   form,   his  heart  is  warm 

His   spirit   light  as   any  fairy; 
His  wrath  is  fearful  as  the  storm 

That    sweeps    The    Hills    of   Tipperary. 

Let  woe  or  want  oppress  his  friends, 
Though  State  and  Fate  proclaim  despair,  he; 

Against  them  all  "the  Pass"  defends, 
And  rights  The  Wrongs  of  Tipperary. 

Yet  meet  him  in  his  cabin  rude, 
Or    dancing    with    his   dark-haired    Mary, 

You'a   swear   they   knew   no   other   mood 
Than  mirth  and  Love  in  Tipperary. 

Soft  Is  his  girl's  sunny  eye, 
Her  mien  is  mild,  her  step  is  airy. 

Her  heart  is  fond,  her  soul  is  high; 
Oh!  she's  The  Pride  of  Tipperary. 

You're  free   to   share  his   scanty  meal; 

His   plighted   word  he'll  never  vary. 
In   vain  they  tried   with   gold   and  steel 

To  shake  The  Faith   of  Tipperary. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  63 

Send    him    to    fight   for   native   land — 

His  is  no   courage  cold  and   weary; 
The  troops   live  not  on  earth  to  stand 

The  headlong  Charge  of  Tipperary. 
Let  Britain   brag   her  motley   rag; 

We'll  lift  The  Green  more  proud  and  airy;— 
Be  mine  the  lot  to  bear  that  flag, 

And   head  The   Men   of   Tipperary. 
Though  Britain  boasts  her  British  hosts, 

About  them  all  right  little  care  we; 
Give    us   to    guard    our   native    coasts 

The  Matchless  Men  of  Tipperary. 

I'M  VERY  HAPPY   WHERE  I  AM. 

I'm  very  happy  where  I  am, 

Far  across  the  say, 
I'm  very  happy  far  from  home, 

In   North   Amerikay. 
It's  only  in  the  night,  when  Pat 

Is   sleeping  by  my  side, 
I   lie  awake,   and   no   one   knows 

The  big  tears  that  I've  cried; 
For  a  little  voice,  still  calls  me  back 

To    my    far,    far  counthrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  it  spake, 

Oh!  nobody  but  me. 
There  Is  a  little  spot  of  ground 

Behind   the   chapel   wall,  <- 

It's  nothing  but  a  tiny   mound, 

Without  a  stone  at  all; 
It  rises  like   my  heart  just  now, 

It   makes   a   dawny   hill; 
It's    from    below    the    voice    comes    out, 

I  cannot  kape  it  still. 
Oh!   little  voice;  ye  call  me  back 

To  my  far,   far  counthrie, 
And    nobody   can   hear   ye   spake, 

Oh!    nobody   but  me. 

THE    CLADDAGH    BOATMAN. 

I  am  a   Claddagh   boatman   bold, 

And  humble  is  my  calling, 
From  morn  to   night,   from  dark  to  light, 

In   Galway    Bay   I'm   trawling; 
I  care  not  for  the  great  man's  frown, 

I  ask  not  for  his  pity; 
My  wants  are  few,  my  heart  is  true, 

I  sing  a  boatman's  ditty. 
I  have  a  fair  and  gentle  wife, 

Her  name  is  Eily  Holway; 
With   many    a  wile,   and  joke,  and  smile, 

I  won  the  pride  of  Galway; 
For  twenty  years,   'mid  hopes  and  fears, 

With  her  I've  faithful  tarried; 
Her   heart   to-night   is   young   and    light, 

As  when  we  first  were  married. 
I  have  a  son,  a  gallant  boy, 

Unstained  by  spot  or  speckle; 
He  pulls  and  hauls  and  mends  the  trawls, 

And   minds   the   other   tackle; 
His  mother  says,   the  boy  like  me, 

Loves  truth  and  hates  all  blarney— 
The  neighbors  swear,  in  Galway  Bay 

There's   not  the   like  of  Barney. 


84  HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 

Thank   God,    I   have   another  child, 

Like  Eily,   lithe  and  slender; 
She  clasps  my  knee,  and  kisses  me 

With   love  so   true   and   tender. 
Though   oft  will   rage   the  howling  blast 

Upon   the   angry   water, 
I  ne'er  complain  of  wind  or  rain, 

For  I  think  of  my  little  daughter. 

When    Sunday    brings    the    hours    of   rest, 

That  sweet  reward   of   labors, 
We  cross  the  fields  to  early  Mass 

And  walk  home  with  our  neighbors. 
Oh!    would   the   rest    of    Erin's    sons 

Were   but   like   us   united; 
To   swear   I'm   loth,    but   by   my   oath, 

Her  name  should  not  be  slighted. 

THE  MEMORY   OF  THE   DEAD. 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight? 

Who   blushes   at   the   name? 
When    cowards    mock   the   patriots'   fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame? 
He's  all  a  knave,   or  half  a  slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus; 
But   a  true  man,   like  you,   man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 
We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few- 
Some   lie   far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep   in   Ireland,   too; 
All — all   are  gone — but   still   lives  on 

The   fame   of  those  who   died; 
All   true   men,    like  you,   men, 

Remember    them    with    pride. 
Some    on    the    shores    of   distant   lands 

Their    weary    hearts    have    laid, 
And   by   the   stranger's    heedless    hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made, 
But,    though    their    clay    be    far    away 

Beyond    the    Atlantic    foam — 
In    true    men,    like    you,    men, 

Their  spirit's  still   at   home. 
The    dust   of   some   is   Irish    earth; 

Among  their  own  the  rest; 
And   the   same   land   that  gave   them  birth 

Has   caught   them   to   her  breast; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of   true  men,   like  you,   men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 
They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To    right    their    native   land; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That   nothing   shall    withstand. 
Alas!    that   Might    can    vanquish    Right — 

They    fell    and    passed    away: 
But   true    men,    like   you,    men, 

Are   plenty   here   to-day. 
Then  here's   their  memory— may  it  be 

For    us   a   guiding   light, 
To   cheer   our   strife   for  liberty, 

And    teach    us   to    unite. 
Through    good   and   ill,    be    Ireland's   still, 

Though   sad    as    theirs,   your   fate 
And    true    men   be   you,    men. 

Like   those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  66 

DERMOT  ASTHORE. 

O,    Dermot  Asthore,   between   waking   and   sleeping, 

I   heard  thy   dear   voice   and   wept  to  its   lay, 
Every  pulse  of  my  heart  the  sweet  measure  was  keeping, 

Till  Killarney's  wild  echoes  had  borne  it  away. 

O.  tell  me,  my  love,  is  this  my  last  meeting? 

Shall  we  wander  no   more  in   Killarney's  green  bowers, 
To  watch  the  bright  sun  o'er  the  dim  hills  retreating, 

And  the  wild  stag  at  rest  in  his  bed  of  spring  flowers? 

O,   Dermot  Asthore,  how  this  fond  heart  would  flutter, 
When  I  met  thee  by  night  in  the  shady  boreen, 

And  heard  thine  own  voice  in  a  soft  whisper  utter 
Those  words  of  endearment— "Mavourneen   Colleen." 

I  know  we  must  part,   but  O,   say  not  forever, 
That  it  may  be  for  years  adds  enough  to  my  pain; 

But  I'll  cling  to  the  hope,  that  though  now  we  must  sever, 
In  some  blessed  hour  I  shall  meet  thee  again. 

MARY  ASTORE. 

Cold   blows   the    winter   wind, 

Mary   Astore! 
Colder  those  hearts  unkind, 

Mary    Astore ! 

They  that  have  power  to  save 
Thus  send  us  forth  to  brave 
Death  on   the  stormy  wave, 

Mary    Astore ! 
Pale  is  thy  cheek  to  see, 

Mary    Astore! 
Come  hide  thy  tears  on  me, 

Mary    Astore! 

Though  scant  thy  cov'ring  be, 
These  arms  shall  shelter  thee — 
Oh!  thou  art  dear  to  me, 

Mary   Astore! 
Altar  nor  priest  have  we, 

.   Mary    Astore! 
Yet  on  this  stormy  sea, 

Mary    Astore! 
We  can  our  vespers  say, 
We  can  for  Ireland  pray 
God  wipe  our  tears  away, 

Mary    Astore! 

LIVE  IN  MY  HEART. 

Vourneen,  when  your  days  were  bright, 

Never    an    eye    did    I    care    to    lift    to   you, 
But,    now,   in   your  fortune's  blight, 

False   ones  are  flying  in  sunshine  that  knew  you. 
But    still   on   one   welcome   true   rely, 
Tho'   the   crops   may   fail  and   the   cow  go-  dry, 
And   your  cabin   be   burn'd,    and   all   be  spent, 
Come  live  in  my  heart,  and  pay  no  rent, 
Live  in  my  heart,  mavourneen. 

Vourneen,    dry   up    those   tears, 

The  sensible  people  will  tell  you  to  wait  dear, 
But,    ah!   in   the  wasting   of  love's   young  years, 

On  our  innocent  hearts  we're  committing  a  chate  dear; 
For  hearts  when  they're   young  should  make  the  vow, 
For  when  they  are  old  they  don't  know  how,— 
So  marry  at  once  and  you'll  not  repent. 
When  you  live  in  my  heart  and  pay  no  rent, 
Live  in  my  heart,  mavourneen. 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  BLARNEY. 

Ob!  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  the  Blarney 
That's   found  near  the  banks  of  Klllarney? 

Believe  it  from  me, 

No   girl's   heart  Is   free. 

Once  she  hears  the  sweet  sound  of  the  Blarney. 
The  Blarney's  so  great  a  deceiver, 
That  a  girl  thinks  you're  there  tho'  you  leave  her; 

And    she    never   finds    out 

All  the  tricks  you're  about, 
Till  she's  quite  gone  herself  with  your  Blarney. 

Oh!  say,  would  you  find  this  same  Blarney? 
There's  a  castle  not  far  from  Killarney; 

On    the   top    of   its   wall 

(But  take  care  you  don't  fall) 
There's  a  stone  that  contains  all  this  blarney. 

Like  a  magnet,  its  influence  such  is, 
That  attraction  it  gives  all  it  touches; 

If  you  kiss   it,   they  say, 

That  from   that   blessed   day 
You  may  kiss  whom  you  please,  with  your  blarney. 


YE    DARK  HAIR'D    YOUTHS. 

Ye  dark-halr'd  youths  and  elders  hoary, 

List  to  the  wand'ring  harper's  song; 
My  clairseach  weeps  my  true  love's  story 

In  my  true  love's  native  tongue: 
She's  bound  and  bleeding  'neath  th'  oppressor, 

Few  her  friends  and  fierce  her  foe, 
And  brave  hearts  cold  who  would  redress  her, 

Mo  chreevin  evin  alga,  O! 
My  love  had  riches  once  and  beauty 

Till  want  and  sorrow  paled  her  cheek; 
And  stalwart  hearts  for  honour's  duty — 

They're  crouching  now,  like  cravens  sleek. 
O'  Heav'n!  that  ere  this  day  of  rigour 

Saw  sons  of  heroes  abject,  low — 
And  blood  and  tears  thy  face  disfigure, 

Mo  chreevin  evin  alga,  O! 
I'd  sing  ye  more  but  age  is  stealing 

Along  my  pulse  and  tuneful  fires; 
Far  bolder  woke  my  chord  appealing, 

For  cravsn  Sheamus,  to  your  sires. 
Arouse  to  vengeance,  men  of  brav'ry 

For  broken  oaths — for  altars  low — 
For  bonds  that  bind  in  bitter  slav'ry 

Mo  chreevin  evin  alga,  O! 


THE  FAIRY  BOY. 

A  mother  came  when  the  stars  were  paling, 

Wailing  round  a  lonely   spring; 
Thus   she   cried   while  tears   were  falling, 

Calling    on    the    fairy    King: 
"Why   with    spells    my   child   caressing, 

Courting  him  with  fairy  joy; 
Why   destroy   a   mother's   blessing. 

Wherefore  steal   my   baby   boy? 
"O'er   the  mountain,    through   the   wild   wood, 

Where  his   childhood   loved   to   play; 
Where  the  flowers   are   freshly  springing, 

There   I   wander  day    by   day. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  f7 

"Th«r«  I  wander,  growing  fonder 

Of  the  child  that  made  my  Joy; 
On   the  echoes  wildly  calling. 

To  restore  my  fairy  boy. 
"But  In  vain  my  plaintive  calling. 

Tears  are  falling  all  In  vain; 
He  now  sports  with  fairy  pleasure. 

He's  the  treasure  of  their  train! 
"Fare  thee  well,   my  child,   for  ever, 

In    this    world    I've    lost   my   joy, 
But    in   the    next   we   ne'er   shall    sever, 

There  I'll  find  my  angel  boy!" 


THE   LOW-BACKED   CAE. 

When  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

'Twas  on  a  market  day, 
A  low-back'd  car  she  drove,   and  sat 

Upon   a   truss   of  hay; 
But    when    that   hay    was    blooming    grass, 

And  deck'd  with   flowers  of  spring, 
No   flow'r   was   there   that   could  compare 

With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  In  the  low-back'd  car, 
The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 

Never    asked    for    the   toll, 

But  just   rubb'd   his   old   poll, 
And   looked   after   the   low-back'd  car. 
In  battle's  wild   commotion, 

The   proud   and    mighty    Mars, 
With    hostile    scythes,    demands    the   tithes 

Of  death   in  warlike  cars; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has   darts    In   her   bright   eye, 
That  knock  men  down,  in  the  market  town, 

As   right  and   left  they   fly- 
While   she   sits   in   her   low-back'd   car, 
Than   battle  more   dangerous  far — 

For  the  doctor's  art 

Cannot  cure  the  heart 
That  is  hit  from  the   low-back'd   car. 
Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,   sir, 

Has   strings   of   ducks   and    geese, 
But  the  scores   of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these; 
While  she    among    her    poultry    sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle  dove, 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love. 
While  she  sits  In  the  low-back'd  car, 
The   lovers   come   near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 

That  Peggy  is  pickin', 
As  she  sits  In  the  low-back'd  car. 
Oh,  I'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With    Peggy    by    my    side, 
Than  a  coach-and-four  and  goold  galore, 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride; 
For   the    lady   would    sit   fornenst  me, 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 
While  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me, 

With   my  arm  around  her  waist — 
While   we   drove   In   the   low-back'd    car, 
To   be   married   by   Father   Maher, 

Oh,    my    heart  would   beat   high, 

At   her   glance   and   her   sigh, 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-back'd  car. 


CS  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MARY   OF   THE   CURLING   HAIR. 

My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 

The  laughing   teeth   and   bashful   air, 

Our  bridal  morn  is  dawning  fair, 

With   blushes   in   the    skies. 
Shule!   shule!    shule!   agra, 
Shule  go   sucur  agus  shule  aroon! 
My   love!   my  pearl! 
My  own  dear  girl! 
My  mountain  maid,  arise! 

Wake,    linnet    of    the   osier    grove! 
Wake,   trembling,   stainless,   virgin   dove! 
Wake,  nestling  of  the  parent's  love! 
Let  Moran    see   thine  eyes. 
Shule,   shule,  &c. 

I  am  no  stranger,  proud  and  gay, 
To  win  thee  from  thy  home  away, 
And  find  thee,   for   a  distant  day, 
A   theme    for    wasting    sighs. 
Shule,   shule,  &c. 

But  we  were  known  from  infancy: 
Thy   father's    hearth   was    home   to   me; 
No  selfish  love  was  mine  for  thee, 
Unholy  and  unwise. 

Shule,   shule,   &c. 

And  yet  (to  see  what  love  can  do!) 
Though  calm  my  hope  has  burned,  and  true, 
My  cheek   is  pale  and  worn  for  you. 
And    sunken   are    mine    eyes! 
Shule,   shule,   &c. 

But  soon  my  love  shall  be  my  bride, 
And  happy  by  our  own  fire-side, 
My    veins   shall    feel   the   rosy   tide, 
That  lingering  hope   denies. 
Shule,   shule,   &c. 

My  Mary  of  the  curling  hair, 
The   laughing    teeth   and    bashful    air, 
Our  bridal  morn  is   dawning  fair, 
With   blushes   in    the    skies. 
Shule,   shule,   &c. 

THREE   FISHERS    WENT   SAILING. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 
Out    into    the    west    as    the    sun    went    down, 

Each   thought   on    the   woman    who   lov'd    him   the  best. 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them   out  of  the  town. 

For  men  must  work,   and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's   little  to  earn  and  many  to  keep 

The"  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tow'r, 
And   they  trim'd   the   lamps   as   the  sun   went  down. 

They  look'd  at  the  squall,  and  they  look'd  at  the  show'r, 
And   the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown! 

But   men   must  work,   and   women   must   weep, 
Tho'   storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep, 

And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands. 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And   the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For   those  who   will   never   come  back  to   the   town. 

For   men  must  work,   and  women  must   weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 

And   good-bye  to   the  bar  and   its   moaning. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

Prince  Charles  he  is  King  James's  son, 
And  from  a  royal  line  is  sprung; 
Then  up  with  shout,  and  out  with  blade, 
And  we'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 
Oh!   my  dear,   my  fair-hair'd  youth, 
Thou  yet  hast  hearts  of  fire  and  truth; 
Then  up  with   shout,  and  out  with   blade — 
We'll  raise  once  more  the  white  cockade. 

My  young  men's  hearts  are  dark  with  woe; 
On  my  virgins'  cheeks  the  grief-drops  flow; 
The  sun  scarce  lights  the  sorrowing  day, 
Since  our  rightful  prince  went  far  away. 
He's    gone,    the   stranger   holds    his  throne; 
The  royal  bird  far  off  is   flown : 
But    up    with    shout,    and    out    with    blade 
We'll  stand  or  fall  with  the  white  cockade. 

No  more  the  cuckoo  hails  the  spring, 
The  woods  no  more  with   the  stanch-hounds  ring; 
The  song  from  the  glen  so  sweet  before, 
Is  hush'd  since  Charles  has  left  our  shore. 
The  Prince  is  gone:  but  he  soon   will  come, 
With  trumpet-sound,  and  with  beat  of  drum: 
Then    up    with    shout,    and    out    with   blade — 
Huzza  for  the   right  and   the  white  cockade. 


THE  WHISTLING  THIEF. 

When  Pat  came  o'er  the  hills,  his  colleen  fair  to  see, 
His  whistle,   loud  and  shrill,  his  signal  was  to  be. 

(Shrill  whistle.) 

"Oh!  Mary,"  the  mother  cried,  "there's  some  one  whistling,  sure," 
"Oh!  mother,  you  know  it's  the  wind  that's  whistling  through  the  door. 

(Whistles  "Gerryowen.") 

"I've  lived  a  long  time,   Mary,   in  this  wide  world,  my  dear. 
But  the  wind  to  whistle  like  that,   I  never  yet  did  hear." 
"But,   mother,  you  know  the  fiddle  hangs  just  behind  the  chink, 
And  the  wind  upon  the  string  is  playing  a  tune,  I  think." 

(Dog  barks.) 

"The  dog  is  barking  now,  and  the  fiddle  can't  play  that  tune." 
"But,  mother,  you  know  that  dogs  will  bark,  when  they  see  the  moon; 
"Now  how  can  he  see  the  moon,  when  you  know  he's  old  and  blind? 
Blind  dogs  can't  see  the  moon,  nor  fiddles  be  played  by  the  wind." 

(Pig  grunts.) 

"And  now  there  is  the  pig,  onaisy  in  his  mind." 
"But,  mother,  you  know  they  say  that  pigs  can  see  the  wind." 
"That's  all  very  well  in  the  day,   but  then,   I  may  remark, 
That  pigs,    no   more   than   we,    can   see   anything   in   the    dark. 
"Now  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think;  I  know  very  well  it  is  Pat. 
Be  off,   you   whistling  thief!  and   get  along  home  out  of  that! 
And  you  be  off  to  your  bed,  and  don't  bother  me  with  your  tears, 
For  though  I've   lost  my  eyes,   I   have  not  lost  my   ears." 

(Moral.) 

Now  boys,   too   near  the  house   don't  courting  go,   d'ye  mind, 
Unless   you're   certain   sure   the   old   woman's  both   deaf   and   blind; 
The   days   when   they   were   young,    forget   they   never  can — 
They're  sure  to  tell  the  difference  'twixt  a  fiddle,  a  dog,  or  a  man. 


THERE'S   A   SWEET    LITTLE   SPOT. 

There's  a  sweet  little  spot,   away  down  by  Cape  Clear, 
Sure,    it's    Ireland    herself,    to   all    Irishmen   dear; 
Where  the  white  praties  blossom  like  illigant  flowers, 
And  the  wild  birds  sing  sweetly  above  the  round  towers; 
And  the  dear  little   Shamrock  that  none  can  withstand, 
Is  the  beautiful  Emblem  of  Old  Ireland. 


70  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

In  his  hat,   good  St.   Patrick  used  always  to   wtar, 
The   Shamrock,   whenever  he  went  to  a  fair; 
And  Nebuchadnezzar,  no  doubt  highly  prized 
A  bit  of  the  blossom  when  he  went  disguised; 
For,    the    bosom    of    beauty    itself   might   expand. 
When  bedecked  by  the  Shamrock  of  Old  Ireland. 

When    far,    far   away,   a   sweet  blossom   I've   seen, 
I've  dreamt  of  Shillelaghs  and  Shamrocks  so  green; 
That  grow,  like  two  twins,  on  the  bogs  and  the  hills, 
With   a  drop  in   my   eye,    that   with  joy   iny   heart   fills; 
And  I've  blessed  the  dear  sod  from  a  far  distant  strand, 
And  the  beautiful   Shamrock  of  Old  Ireland. 


THE  TIE  IS  BROKE,  MY  IRISH  GIRL. 

The  tie  is   broke,   my  Irish   girl, 

That  bound   thee  here,  to  me, 
My  heart  has  lost  its  single  pearl, 

And   thine  at  last  is  free — 
Dead  as  the  earth  that  wraps  thy  clay, 

Dead    as    the    stone   above   thee — 
Cold  as  this  heart,   that  breaks  to  say 

It    never    more    can    love    thee. 

I  press  thee  to  my  aching  breast — 

No  blush  comes  o'er  thy  brow — 
Those  gentle  arms  that  once  caress'd. 

Fall  round  me  deadly  now — 
The  smiles  of  Love  no  longer  part 

Those  dead  blue  lips  of  thine — 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  heart, 

'Tis  cold  at  last  to  mine. 

Were    we   beneath    our    native    heaven, 

Within   our  native   land — 
A  fairer  grave  to  thee  were  given 

Than  this  wild  bed  of  sand. 
But  thou  wert  single  in  thy  faith, 

And   single    in   thy    worth: 
And  thou   shouldst  die  a  lonely  death. 

And  lie  in  lonely  earth. 

Then   lay   thee   down   and    take  thy   rest, 

My  last — last  look  is  given — 
The   earth   is  smooth  above  thy   breast. 

And  mine  is  yet  unriven! 
No  mass — no  parting   rosary — 

My   perished   love   can   have; 
But  her  husband's  sighs  embalm  the  corse, 

A  husband's  tears   her  grave. 


OH,  LIMERICK  IS  BEAUTIFUL, 

Oh,  Limerick  is  beautiful,  as  everybody  knows; 

And  by  that  city  of  my  heart  how  proud  the   Shannon  flows! 

It  sweeps  down  by  the  brave  old  town  as  clear  in  depth  and  tone 

As   when   Sarsfleld   swept  the  Saxon   from   the  walls   of   Garryowen. 

'Tis  not  for  Limerick  that  I  sigh — tho'  I  love  her  in  my  soul — 

That  times  will   change,   and  friends  will  die,   and  man   cannot  control; 

No,   not  for  friends  long  pass'd  away,   nor  days  forever  flown, 

But  that  the  maiden  I  adore  is  sad  in  Garryowen. 

Oh,  she  I  love  is  beautiful,   and  world-wide  is  her  fame; 
t'he  dwells  down  by  the  flowing  tide,  and   Eire  is  her   name. 
And   dearer  than   my   very   life   her  glances  are  to  me — 
The  light  that  cheers  my  weary  soul  across  life's  stormy  sea. 


HIBERNIAN   SONGSTER.  71 

'Tis  true,  she  wears  no  coronet  nor  gems  these  latter  days; 
She  has  no  fleet  upon  the  deep — no  ships  within  her  bays — 
No   flocks   upon   the   mountain    side — no   herds  upon   the  plain- 
No  gardens  rich  with  summer  bloom — no  fields  of  waving  grata. 

The  fetters  of  the  tyrant  are  on  her  limbs — oh,  shame! 

That  we  but  whine  who  should  avenge  the  insult  to  her  fame; 

And  crowned  with  woe,   she  walks  the  earth — the  sad  amid  the  gay— 

Because  she  would  not  sell  her  love  for  gems  that  fade  away. 

Yet  see  her  in   her  sorrow,   beneath  the  summer  skies; 
What   is  the  diamond's  brightness  to   the   lustre  of  her  eyes? 
And  what   are   earthly   diadems  to   the   glories   that  entwine 
Her  brow  upon  whose  front  the  gems  of  Truth  and  Virtue  shine? 

The  Saxon  lord,   by  force  and  fraud,  has  wooed  her  heart  for  years, 
She's    pined    within    his    dungeon    keeps — she's    wept   hot,    bitter    tears; 
But  tho'  he  crucify  her  soul,  and  scourge  her  thro'  the  land, 
She'll  not  forsake  her  old  true  love  to  take  his  bloody  hand. 

I  loved  thee  in  my  boyhood,  and  now,  in  manhood's  noon, 
The  vision  of  my   life  is  still  to  dry  thy  tears,   aroon! 
I'd  sing  unto  the  tomb,   and  dance   beneath   the  gallows  tree, 
To  see  thee  on  the  hills  once  more,  proud,  passionate  and  free. 


THE  IKISH  MAIDEN'S  LAMENT. 

On  Carrigdhoun  the  heath  is  brown, 

The  clouds  are  dark  o'er  Ardnalia, 
And  many  a  stream  comes  rushing  down 

To  swell  the  angry  Ownabwee; 
The    moaning    blast    is    sweeping    fast 

Thro'  many  a  leafless  tree, 
And  I'm  alone,  for  he  is  gone, 

My  hawk  has  flown,  ochone  machree. 

The  heath  was  green  on  Carrigdhoun, 

Bright   shone   the  sun   on   Ardnalia, 
The  dark  green  trees  bent  trembling  down 

To  kiss  the  slumb'ring  Ownabwee; 
That   happy   day,    'twas    but   last   May, 

'Tis   like   a  dream  to  me, 
When  Doinnall  swore,  ay,  o'er  and  o'er 

We'd  part  no   more,    oh   stor  machree. 

Soft  April  show'rs  and  bright  May  flow'rs 

Will    bring    the    summer   back    again, 
But  will  they  bring  me  back  the  hours 

I  spent  with  my  brave  Doinnall  then? 
'Tis  but  a  chance,  for  he's  gone  to  France 

To  wear  the  fleur  de  Us; 
But  I'll  follow  you,   ma  Doinnall  dhu, 

For  still   I'm   true  to  you,   machree. 

PADDY  BLAKE'S  ECHO. 

In  the  Gap  of  Dunlo 

There's   an    echo    or    so; 
And   some   of    them    echoes    is    very    surprising 

You'll   think   in    this    stave 

That  I  mane  to  desaive — 
For  a  ballad's  a  thing  you  expect  to  find  lies  in. 

But   sartin    and   thrue 

In   that  hill   forninst   you 
There's  an  echo  as  sure  and  as  safe  as  the  bank  too; 

If   you   civilly    spake, 

"How   d'ye   do,    Paddy  Blake?" 
The  echo  politely   says,    "Very  well,   thank  you." 


72  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

One  day   Teddy   Keogh 

With  Kate  Connor  did  go 
To  bear,  from  the  echo,  this  wonderful  talk,  sir; 

But  the  echo,  they  say, 

Was  conthrairy   that  day, 
Or  perhaps  Paddy  Blake  had  gone  out  for  a  walk,  sir. 

"Now,"  says  Teddy  to  Kate, 

"'Tis   too   hard  to  be  bate 
By  this  deaf  and  dumb  baste  of  an  echo,  so  lazy; 

But  if  we  both  shout 

To  each  other,  no  doubt 
We'll  make  up  an  echo  between  us,  my  daisy!" 

"Now,    Kitty,"    says   Teddy, 

"To   answer   be   ready." 
"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  cries  out  Kitty,  then,  sir; 

"Would   you   like  to   be  wed, 

Kitty  darlin'?"  says  Ted. 
"Oh,  very  well,  thank  you,"  says  Kitty  again,  sir; 

"Do  you  like  me?"  says  Teddy, 

And    Kitty,    quite  ready, 
Cried,    "Very   well,    thank   you,"   with   laughter  beguiling. 

I    think    you'll    confess 

Teddy  could   not  do  less 
Than  pay  his  respects  to  the  lips  that  were  smiling. 

Oh,    dear   Paddy    Blake, 

May  you  never  forsake 
Those  hills  that  return  us  such  echoes  endearing; 

And  may  girls  all  translate 

Their    soft    answers    like    Kate, 
No  faithfulness  doubting,  no  treachery  fearing. 

And,    boys,    be    you    ready, 

Like   frolicsome   Teddy> 
Be  earnest  in   loving,   tho'   given  to  joking 

And  thus,  when  inclined, 

May    all    true    lovers   find 
Sweet  echoes  to  answer  from  hearts  they're  invoking. 

THE   GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  ARMY. 

I'm    Paddywhack,    of   Ballyback, 

Not   long   ago   turn'd    soldier; 
In  grand  attack,  in  storm  or  sack, 

None  will   than   I  be  bolder; 
With  spirits  gay  I  march  away, 

I   please   each    fair   beholder; 
And  now  they  sing,   "He's  quite  the  thing, 

Och!    what    a    jovial    soldier!" 
In    Londonderry    or   London    merry, 

Och!    faith!    ye   girls,   I   charm   ye; 
And  there  ye  come,   at  beat  of  drum, 

To   see  me   in   the  army. 
Rub  a  dub  dub,   and  pilli  li  loo, 
Whack!    fal    de   lal   la,    and   trilli   li   loo, 
I  laugh  and  sing,  God  bless  the  King, 

Since   I've  been   in   the  army. 
The  lots   of   girls   my   train   unfurls, 

Would  form  a  pleasant  party; 
There's   Kitty    Lynch,    a   tidy   wench, 

And  Suke,   and  Peg  M'Carthy; 
Miss   Judy   Baggs,   and   Sally   Maggs, 

And   Martha   Scraggs,    all   storm   me, 
And   Molly   Magee  is   after  me, 

Since  I've   been   in   the  army! 
The  Sallys,  and  Pollys,  the  Kittys  and  Dollys, 

In   numbers   would   alarm   ye; 
E'en    Mrs.    White,    who's    lost   her   sight, 

Admires  me  in  the  army. 

Rub    a    dub    dub,    &c. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  73 

The  roaring  boys,  who  made  a  noise, 

And    thwack'd   me   like   the   devil, 
Are  now  become  before  me  dumb, 

Or    else   are   very    civil. 
There's    Murphy    Roake,    who   often   broke 

My  head,  now  daresn't  harm  me; 
But  bows  and  quakes,  and  off  he  sneaks, 

Since  I've  been  in  the  army. 
And  if  one  neglect  to  pay  me  respect, 

Och!    another    tips   the    blarney; 
With  "whisht!  my  friend,  and  don't  offend 

A   gentleman   of   the  army." 

Rub    a   dub    dub,    &c. 

My  arms  are  bright,   my  heart  is  light, 

Good   humor   seems   to   warm   me: 
I've  now   become   with   ev'ry   chum 

A  favorite  in  the  army. 
If   I  go   on   as   I've  begun, 

My  comrades  all  inform  me, 
They  soon  shall  see  that  I  will  be 

A  general  in  the  army. 
Delightful  notion,  to  get  promotion, 
Then,   ladies,   how   I'll   charm  ye! 
For  'tis  my   belief,    Commander-in-chief 
I  shall  be  in  the  army. 
Rub  a  dub   dub,   and  pilli   li  loo, 
Whack!    fal    de    lal    la,    and   trilli   li   loo, 
I  laugh  and  sing,  God  bless  the  King, 
My  country  and  the  army! 


0  LET  ME  LIKE   A   SOLDIEK   FAIL. 

O  let  me  like  a  soldier  fall 

Upon   some   open    plain; 
This   breast,    expanding   for  the  ball 

To   blot   out   every   stain; 
Brave,    manly   hearts   confer   my   doom, 

That  gentler   ones  may  tell 
Howe'er   forgot,    unknown    my   tomb, 

I  like  a  soldier  fell. 

»          I  only  ask  of  that  proud  race 

Which  ends  its  blaze  in  me, 
To  die  the   last  and  not  disgrace 

Its    ancient   chivalry; 
Though    o'er    my    clay    no    banner    wave 

Nor  trumpet  requiem  swell; 
Enough,   they  murmur  at  my  grave 

He   like   a   soldier   fell. 


MY  POOR   DOG  TRAY. 

On  the  green   banks  of   Shannon,   when   Sheelah  was  nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I; 

No  harp   like  my  own   could   so  cheerily  play, 

And  wherever   I   went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 

She  said   (while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart), 

"Oh!  remember  your  Sheelah,   when  far,   far  away, 

And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray." 

Poor  dog!  he  was   faithful  and  kind,   to  be  sure. 

And  he  constantly   loved  me,   although  I  was  poor; 

When  the  sour-looking  folks  sent  me  heartless  away 

I  had  always  a  friend   in  my   poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark,   and  the  night  was  so  cold, 

And  Pat  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 

How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  grey, 

And  he  lick'd  me  for  kindness— my  poor  dog  Tray. 


74  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  I  remember'd  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my   last  crust  to  his   pitiful  face, 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  play'd  a  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 
Where  now  shall  I  go — poor,  forsaken,  and  blind, — 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me  so  faithful  and  kind? 
To   my  sweet  native  village,   so  far,   far  away, 
I  can  never  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

TERENCE'S  FAREWELL. 

So,  my  Kathleen,  you're  going  to  leave  me 

All  alone  by  myself  in  this  place; 
But   I'm   sure  you   will    never   deceive   me, 

O,  no,  if  there's  truth  in  that  .face. 
Though    England's    a   beautiful    city 

Full  of  illigant  boys.   O   what  then, 
You   wouldn't   forget    your   poor   Terence! 

You'll   come   back   to   ould   Ireland   again. 
Oh,    those   English   deceivers  by   nature, 

Though   maybe  you'd  think  them  sincere: 
They'll    say    you're    a    sweet    charming    creature, 

But  don't  you  believe  them,  my  dear 
O,  Kathleen,   agrah!   don't  be  minding 

The    flattering    speeches    they'd    make; 
But  tell  them  a  poor  lad  in   Ireland 

Is  breaking  his  heart  for  your  sake. 
It's  folly  to  keep  you  from  going, 

Though,    faith,   it's   a   mighty   hard   case; 
For,   Kathleen,   you   know  there's   no   knowing 

When  next  I  shall  see  your  swate  face. 
And   when    you    come   back   to    me,    Kathleen, 

None  the  better  will  I   be  off  then; 
You'll    be    speaking   such    beautiful    English, 

Sure  I    won't  know   my   Kathleen   again. 
Aye  now,  Where's   the  need  of  this  hurry! 

Don't   flusther  me  so   in   this  way; 
I  forgot,   'twixt  the  grief  and  the  flurry, 

Every    word    I   was   maning   to    say. 
Now  just  wait  a  minute,  I  bid  ye; 

Can  I   talk  if  you   bother  me  so? — 
Oh,   Kathleen,    my  blessings  go  wid  ye, 

Every   inch  of  the  way  that  you  go. 

I'M  NOT  MYSELF  AT  ALL. 

Oh!   I  am  not  myself  at  all,   Molly  dear,   Molly  dear,     ' 

I  am  not  myself  at  all, 

Nothing  caring,   nothing  knowing,   'tis   after  you  I'm  going, 
Faith   your  shadow    'tis   I'm   growing,    Molly   dear,    Molly    dear, 

And  I'm  not  myself  at  all. 

Th"    other   day   I    went   confessin',    and   I   asked   the   father's    blessin" 
"But,"   says   I,   "don't  give   me   one  entirely, 

For  I  fretted  so  last  year,  but  the  half  o'  me  is  here, 
So   give   the    other  half   to   Molly   Brierly; 

Oh!  I'm  not  myself  at  all." 

Oh!  I'm  not  myself  at  all,  Molly  dear,  Molly  dear, 

My    appetite's    so    small, 

I  once  could  pick  a  goose,  but  my  buttons  is  no  use, 
Faith   my  tightest  coat  is  loose,   Molly  dear,   Molly  dear, 

And    I'm    not   myself   at   all. 

If  thus  it  is  I  waste,  you'd  better,  dear,   make  haste, 
Before  your  lover's  gone  away  entirely. 

If  you   don't  soon   change  your   mind, 

Not  a  bit  o'   me   you'll   find, ' 
And   what   'ud   you   think  o'   that,    Molly   Brierly? 

Oh!   I'm  not  myself  at  all. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  75 

Oh!   my   shadow   on   the  wall,   Molly  dear,    Molly   dear, 

Isn't  like  myself  at  all. 

For  I've  got  so  very  thin,  myself  says  'tisn't  him, 
But   that   purty   girl   so    slim,    Molly   dear,    Molly    dear, 

And  I'm  not  myself  at  all. 

If  thus   I  smaller  grow,   all  fretting,  dear,   for  you, 
'Tis  you  should  make  up  the  deficiency, 

So  just   let  Father   Taaf, 

Make   you   my   better  half, 
And   you    will   not    the   worse   for  the  addition  be; 

Oh!  I'm  not  myself  at  all. 
I'll  be  not  myself  at  all,  Molly  dear,  Molly  dear, 

'Till  you  my   own  I  call; 

Since  a  change  o'er  me  there  came,  sure  you  might  change  your  name, 
And   'twould  just  come   to  the  same,   Molly  dear,   Molly  dear, 

Oh!    'twould   just   come  to   the  same; 

For  if  you  and  I  were  one,   all  confusion  would  be  gone, 
And    'twould   simplify  the  mather  entirely, 

And  'twould  save  us  so  much   bother, 

When  we'd  both  be  one  another, 
So   listen  now   to   rayson,    Molly   Brierly; 

Oh!   I'm  not  myself  at  all. 


MARY  OF  FERMOY. 

Just  eighteen  years  of  age  I  am,   my  father's  only  joy. 

He  owns  a  little  farm  and  cot,  in  a  place  they  call  "Fermoy;" 

He  gave  me  all  the  care  he  could,   since  my  poor  mother  died, 

And  I  became  my  father's  pet,  and  they  say  the  village  pride. 

He  often  took  me  on  his  knee,  when  I  was  but  a  child, 

And    kissed   me   o'er   and   o'er   again,    and    blessed    me  as   he    smiled; 

Of  lovers  I  have  got  a  score,   and  some  in  dear  Fermoy, 

And  one  across  the  ocean  wide,  his  name  is  Pat  Malloy. 

His  mother  keeps  a  huckster  shop,   well  known  for  miles  around, 

And  search  the  country  through  and  through,  her  equal  can't  be  found; 

But  alas!  the  times  came  very  hard,  the  landlord  raised  the  ^-ent, 

And  Pat  to   live  in  idleness  could  no  longer  be  content. 

He   came   and  asked   a  question,    and   I   answered,    "Yes;   I   will." 

He   kissed   me  many   times,   as   if  he'd  never  get   his  fill; 

Oh!    God    will   surely   bless   him,    and   protect   my   darling  joy, 

Till  he  comes   back  to   Ireland,  and   his  Mary  of  Fermoy. 

He  left  Fermoy  for  England,   and  there  across  the  sea, 

For   good    Columbia's   happy    shores,    blest    land    of   liberty; 

Where  Erin's  sons  are  not  the  slaves  of  landlord  or  of  queen, 

And  where  they  can  without  offence  wear  their  country's  badge  of  green. 

My   Pat  has   written  home  to  me   to  other  loves  decline. 

For  he  has  promised  me  his  heart,  and  I  know  that  he  has  mine; 

And  now  he's  coming  home  again,  to  visit  dear  Fermoy, 

Then  Father  Boyce  will  change  my  name,  to  Mistress  Pat  Malloy. 

UP  FOR  THE  GREEN! 

'Tis  the  green — O,  the  green  is  the  color  of  the  true, 

And  we'll   back  it   'gainst  the  orange  and  we'll   raise  it  o'er  the  blue' 

For  the  color  of  our  Fatherland  alone  should  here  be  seen — 

'TiB  the  color  of  the  martyred  dead — our  own  immortal  green. 

Then   up   for  the  green,   boys,   and  up   for  the  green! 

O,   'tis  down  to  the  dust,   and  a  shame  to  be  seen; 

But  we've  hands — O,   we've  hands,   boys,   full   strong  enough,   I  wean, 

To  rescue  and   to  raise  again   our  own  immortal   green! 
They  may  say  they  have  power,  'tis  vain  to  oppose — 
'Tis  better  to  obey  and  live,  than  surely  die  as  foes; 
But   we  scorn   all   their   threats,   boys,    whatever   they  may  mean; 
For  we  trust  in  God  above  us,  and  we  dearly  love  the  green. 

So   we'll   up   for  the   green,    and  we'll   up  for  the  green! 

O,  to  die  is  far  better  than  be  cursed  as  we  have  been; 

And  we've  hearts — O,  we've  hearts,  boys,  full  true  enough,  I  ween, 

To   rescue   and   to   raise  again   our  own   immortal   green! 


76  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

They  may  swear  as  they  often  did,  our  wretchedness  to  cure; 

But  we'll  never  trust  John   Bull  again,   nor  let  his  lies  allure; 

No,    we   won't — no,    we   won't,    Bull,    for   now    nor    evermore! 

For  we've  hopes  on  the  ocean,  and  we've  trust  on   the  shore. 
Then  up  for  the  green,  boys,  and  up  for  the  green! 
Shout   It   back   to    the    Sasanach     "We'll   never   sell    the   green!" 
For  our  Tone  is  coming  back,  and  with  men  enough,  I  ween, 
To  rescue,  and  avenge  us,  and  our  own  immortal  green. 

O,  remember  the  days  when  their  reign  we  did  disturb, 
At   Limerick  and   Thules,   Blackwater  and    Benburb; 
And  ask  this  proud  Saxon  if  our  blows  he  did  enjoy. 
When  we  met  him  on  the  battle  field  of  France,   at  Fontenoy. 

Then  we'll  up  for  the  green,  boys,  and  up  for  the  green! 

O'   'tis  still  in  the  dust,   and  a  shame  to  be  seen; 

But  we've  hearts  and  we've  hands,  boys,   full  strong  enough,  I  ween, 

To  rescue  and  to  raise  again  our  own  unsullied  green! 

FAREWELL  TO  KATHLEEN. 

Sleep  on,  my  beloved  one, 

My   Kathleen   sleep   on, 
And    dream    of    the    bright    days 

And  hopes  that  are  gone, 
Until   in   thy   slumber 

Thou  still  seem'st  to  hear, 
The   words   which   a   loved  on« 

Once    breathed    in    thine    ear, 
Farewell,    farewell!   my   Kathleen  dear. 
Farewell,  farewell!  my  Kathleen  dear. 

May  that  dream  of  enchantment 

Be   oft  in   my   sleep 
When    high    lash    the   billows, 

When  loud  roars  the  deep; 
Where    my   bark   bears   me   swiftly 

Far,    far   from   my  home, 
May  the  bliss   of   that  moment 

To  soothe   thee  oft  come! 
Farewell,    farewell!   my   Kathleen   dear, 
Farewell,    farewell!    my    Kathleen    dear. 

THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

Curiosity  bore  a  young  native  of  Erin, 

To   view   the   gay   banks   of   the    Rhine, 
When   an  empress  he  saw,   and  the   robe  she   was  wearing 

All    over    with    diamonds    did    shine; 
A  goddess  in  splendor  was  never  yet  seen, 
To   equal  this  fair  one  so  mild  and  serene, 
In  soft  murmur  she  says,   "My  sweet  linnet  so  green, 

Are  you  gone — will  I  never  see  you  more? 

The   cold,  lofty  Alps,  you   freely  went  over. 

Which    nature    had    placed    in    your   way, 
That    Marengo,    Saloney,    around   you   did   hover. 

And   Paris   did   rejoice   the  next  day. 
It  grieves  me   the   hardships  you   did   undergo, 
Over    mountains    you    traveled    all    covered    with    snow, 
The   balance  of   power  your   courage   laid   low, 

Are  you  gone — will  I  never  see  you  more? 

The  crowned  heads  of  Europe  when  you  were  In  splendor, 

Fain    would    they    have   you    submit, 
But  the  goddess  of  Freedom  soon  bid  them   surrender, 

And    lowered   the   standard    to    your   wit; 
Old    Frederick's    colors   in    France   you   did   bring, 
Yet   his   offspring   found   shelter   under  your   wing, 
That  year  in  Virginia  you   sweetly  did  sing, 

Are   you   gone — will   I   never    see   you   more? 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  77 

That  numbers  of  men  are  eager  to  slay  you, 

Their  malice  you   viewed   with  a  smile, 
Their  gold  through  all  Europe  they  sowed  to  betray  you, 

And    they   joined    the    Mamelukes   on    the    Nile, 
Like  ravens   for  blood   their  vile  passions   did   burn, 
The  orphans   they  slew,   and   caused  the   widows  to  mourn. 
They  say  my  linnet's  gone  and  ne'er  will  return, 

Is  he  gone — will  I  never  see  him  more? 
When  the  trumpet  of  war  the  grand  blast  was  sounding, 

You  marched  to  the  north  with  good  will, 
To  relieve  the  poor  slaves  in  their  vile  sack  clothing. 

You   used   your   exertion   and   skill. 
You  spread  out  the  wings  of  your  envied  train, 
While   tyrants    great   Caesar's    old    nest    set   in    flames, 
Their  own  subjects   they   caused   to   eat  herbs   on  the  plains, 

Are  you  gone— will  I  never  see  you  more? 
In  great  Waterloo,  where  numbers  laid  sprawling, 

In    every   field,    high    or   low, 
Fame   on   her  trumpets   through   Frenchmen  was  calling. 

Fresh   laurels   to   place   on  her  brow. 
Usurpers  did  tremble  to  hear  the  loud  call, 
The  third  old   Babe's  new  buildings  did  fall 
The  Spaniards  their  fleet  in  the  harbor  did  call, 

Are  you  gone — will  I  never  see  you  more? 
I'll  roam  through  the  deserts  of  wild  Abyssinia, 

And  yet  find  no  cure  for  my  pain, 
Will  I  go  and  inquire  in  the  isle  of  St.   Helena? 

No,    we  will   whisper  In  vain. 
Tell  me,  you  critics,  now  tell  me  in  time, 
The   nation    I   will   range   my   sweet  linnet  to   find, 
Was  he  slain  at  Waterloo,  or  Flba  on  the  Rhine? 

If  he  was,  I  will  never  see  him  more. 

MY   GRA   GAL   MACHREE. 

O,    blooming   and   fair 

Was   the   young   nymph   who  stole 
The  love  of  my  heart 

And  the  peace  of  my  soul; 
Two   eyes,    like   the   stars, 

Shining  bright  o'er  the  sea, 
And    a   heart   warm   with    love 

Has  my  Gra  Gal  Machree. 
The  long,  curling  hair 

On  her   white   bosom  hung, 
And    heart-stealing   music 

Fell  sweet  from  her  tongue, 
And   the  blush   on  her  cheek 

Told  of  something  to  me, 
When    first    I    beheld   her, 

My  Gra  Gal  Machree. 
That  her  dear  heart  was  mine 

Sure    that   rising   blush    told, 
And   they   say   that   my   love 

Will    soon    change    and    grow   cold; 
But  their  words  are  all  false, 

For  I'll  love  only  thee, 
Till    death    cools    this    heart. 

My    Gra    Gal    Machree. 
O,  blooming  and  fair 

Was   the  young  nymph  who  stole 
The    love  of  my  heart 

And  the  peace  of  my  soul; 
Two  eyes,   like  the  stars. 

Shining   bright   o'er   the   sea, 
And  a  heart  warm  with  love 

Has  my  Gra  Gal  Machree. 


78  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

WOODS    OF    GKEEN    EBIN. 

Oh!  woods  of  green  Erin!  sweet,  sweet  was  the  breeze. 

That  rustled  long  since  thro"  your  wide  spreading  trees. 

And  sweet  was  the  flow  of  your  waters  to  hear, — 

And  precious  the  cabin,  the  home  of  my  dear: 

For  then,  thro'  your  groves,  by  your  waters  I  walk'd, 

And  with  Norah,   of  love  and  of  happiness  talk'd, 

While  calm  as  the  moonlight,  that  silyer'd  your  charms, 

My  child,  softly  sleeping,  lay  press'd  in  her  arms, 

My  child,  softly  sleeping,  lay  press'd  in  her  arms. 

But  now  that  I  visit  thee  Erin,  again, 

Though  years  have  passed  o'er  me,  they've  pass'd  me  in  vain; 

Thy  woods  and  thy  lakes,  and  thy  mountains  no  more. 

Can  renew  such  fond  thrills,  as  they  kindled  before. 

Still  green  are  thy  mountains,  still  green  are  thy  groves, 

Still  tranquil  the  water,  my  sad  spirit  loves; 

But  dark  is  my  home,  and  wild,  wild  its  trees  wave, 

And  the  dew  now  falls  coldly  on  Norah's  lone  grave, 

And  the  dew  now  falls  coldly  on  Norah's  lone  grave. 


DUBLIN  LASSES. 

Cupid  to  fulfil  a  duty, 

Lately    from    Idalia    passes; 
Hovering   o'er   the    isle   of   beauty, 
Gave   the   palm    to    Dublin    lasses. 
O,   the  dear  delighting  lasses, 
Who    compare    with    Dublin    lasses. 
Wit  and   beauty   both   combine, 
And    sweetly    shine    in   Dublin   lasses. 
Venus    with    a   view    to    teaze    him, 

Sent  him  next  to  Mount  Parnassus, 
De'il   a   damsel    there    could    please   him, 
Like  our   charming   Dublin    lasses. 
O,   the  dear,   delighting,   etc. 
Love  Is  theirs,   best  boon  of  nature. 
Tendered    by    the    kindred    graces, 
Each   endearing   glance   and    feature 
Binds  the  heart  to   Dublin  lasses. 

O,   the  dear,   delighting,   etc. 
Music  may  have  charms  for  many, 

Others    stifle   care   o'er   glasses, 

My   delight   and    boast   is    Fanny, 

Fairest   of   the    Dublin    lasses. 

O,   the  dear,   delighting,   etc. 
Sigh  who  will   for  golden  treasure, 

Mine's  a  gern  that  gold   surpasses, 
Fanny's    smiles    give    wealth    and    pleasure, 
Gifts   reserved    for   the   Dublin   lasses. 
O,  the  dear,  delighting,  etc. 


ILL  OMENS. 

When  daylight  was  yet  sleeping  under  the  billow, 
And  stars  in  the  heavens  still  lingering  shone, 

Young  Kitty,  all  blushing,  rose  up  from  her  pillow, 
The  last  time  she  e'er  was  to  press  it  alone. 

For  the  youth  whom  she  treasur'd  her  heart  and  her  soul  in 
Had  promis'd  to  link   the   last  tie  before  noon; 

And  when  once  the  young  heart  of  a  maiden  is  stolen, 
The  maiden  herself  will  steal  after  it  soon. 


HIBERNIAN  SONGSTER.  79 

As  she  look'd  in  the  glass  which  a  woman  ne'er  misses 

Nor  ever  wants  time  for  a  sly  glance  or  two, 
A  butterfly,  fresh  from  the  night  flower's  kisses, 

Flew  over  her  mirror  and  shaded  her  view. 

Enraged  with  the  insect  for  hiding  her  graces, 

She  brush'd  him— <he  fell,  alas!  never  to  rise — 
"Ah!    such,"  said  the  girl,   "is  the  pride  of  our  faces, 

"For  which  the  soul's  innocence  too  often  dies." 

While   she  stole   through   the  garden,    where  heart's-ease   was  growing, 
She  cull'd  some,  and  kissed  off  it's  night-fallen  dew, 

And  a  rose  further  on  looked  so  tempting  and  glowing 
That,  in  spite  of  her  haste,  she  must  gather  it  too; 

But,  while  o'er  the  roses  too  carelessly  leaning, 

Her  zone  fell  in  two  and  the  heart's-ease  was  lost. 
"Ah!  this  means,"  said  the  girl,   (and  she  sigh'd  at  its  meaning), 

"That  love  is  scarce  worth  the  repose  it  will  cost." 


SHTJILE  AGBA. 

As  I  roved  through  my  new  garden  bowers 
To    gaze    upon    fast-fading   flowers, 
And   think   upon   the   happiest   hours 

That   fled   in   summer's  bloom, 
Shuile,   shuile,   simile   agra, 
Time  can  only  ease  my  woe. 
Since  the  lad  of  my  heart  from  me  did  go, 

Gotheen  mavourneen  slaun. 
'Tis  often  I  sat  on  my  true  love's  knee, 
And  many  a  fond  story  he  told  me; 
He   told   me    things    that   ne'er   would   be, 

Gotheen   mavourneen   slaun. 

Shuile,   shuile,   etc. 
I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel, 
When  flax  is  spun  I'll  sell  my  wheel, 
To  buy  my  love  a  sword  and   shield, 

Gotheen   mavourneen   slaun. 

Shuile,   shuile,  etc. 
I'll  dye  my  petticoat,  I'll  dye  it  red, 
And  round  the  world  I'll  beg  my  bread, 
That  all  my  friends  would  wish  me  dead, 

Gotheen    mavourneen    slaun. 

Shuile,   shuile,   etc. 
I  wish  I  was  on  Brandon  Hill, 
'Tis  there  I'll  sit  and  cry  my  fill, 
That  every  tear  would  turn  a  mill, 

Gotheen   mavourneen    slaun. 

Shuile,   shuile,  etc. 
No  more  am  I  that  blooming  maid 
That  used  to  rove  the  valley  shade: 
My  youth  and  bloom  are  all  decayed, 

Gotheen  mavourneen  slaun. 

Shuile,   shuile,   etc. 

WE  MAY  BE  HAPPY  YET. 

0,   smile  as   thou   wert  wont   to   smile,   before  the  weight  of  care 
Had  crushed  thy  heart,  and  for  a  while  left  only  sorrow  there; 
Some  thoughts  perchance  'twere  best  to  quell,  some  impulse  to  forget. 
O'er  which  should  mem'ry  cease  to  dwell,  we  may  be  happy  yet. 
O,   never  name   departed  days,    nor   vows   you   whispered  then, 
Round  which  too  sad  a  feeling  plays  to  trust  their  tones  again; 
Regard  their  shadows  round  thee  cast  as  if  we  ne'er  had  met, 
And  thus  unmindful  of  the  past,  we  may  be  happy  yet. 


80 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS* 

Am.— "THE  OLD  HEAD  OF  DENNIS.' 


TnoMis  MOORS, 
f*n      Andante  motto  exprtuive. 

Arranged  by  J.  L.  HATTO> 

S.    Yet      It    was        not    that     na  -  tare    had 
8.  T  was  that  friends,  the      be  -  loved    of      my 
4.  Sweet         vale        of       A  -    vo  -   cal    bow 

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ral  -  ley    so    sweet.  ATtuat  vale    In      whose  bo-  som    the  bright  wa  -ters  roe*t;t  OuTthe 
ehed    o'er   the  scene,   Her       par  -  est     of         crys  -  tal     and  bright-est      of    green  ;  'T  was 
bo  -  som  were  near,  Who  made  ev  -  "ry     dear    scene    of      en  -  chantmeot  more  dear,  And  who 
calm  could    I      rest       In  thy  bo  -  som    of      shade  with  the  friends  I      love   best,  Where  the 

Oj»|.     |       •     'i       |     _      -i  1                     *               i«u.               •>-             . 

-* 

to  f  f  gyr  £  j|?-f- 

f    J         »-Jt^.     -        f      >     s       a    1 

last    rays      of        feel  •  Ing  and    life  most    de  -  part,    Ere  the  bloom  of    that    val  -  ley     shall 
not     her     soft    mag  -  Ic      of  stream-let     or     hill.     Oh!        no  —   It    was  something  mon 
felt     how    the      best  charms  of    na  •  ture    Im-proveWhen  we  see    them   re  •  fleet  -  ed     from 
storms  that     we       feel     In     thlscold  world  would  cease.  And  our  hearts.like  thy     wa  •  ten.    bt 

P-?_j     rj   it=j= 

•4:  ? 

m^  -j-    '  i 

—  i  1  ^           ^  —    .      ' 

u          fade    from   my    heart.    Ere   the  bloom     o 
ex  -   qul  •   site    still.      Oh!             no—      11 
looks  that     we     love.    When  we  see      the 
ml»  -  pled      in     peace,  And  our  hearts,  lik 

f    that    Tal  •  ley     shall   fade  from    my    heart. 

m    re  -  fleet  -  ed      from  looks    that    we     love. 
e    thy     wa  •  ters,     be      min  -  gled     In      peace. 

*     J   -     —  M  —  i—  J-^5=^H 

~*                   ten.  ' 

gp^  H        F^h^  ..—  -  •  p.  '  ^ 

=^    -U  *  •  a  " 

r»                             J*     I 

—  =  —  -  —  =i  =r~~=i  =j  1  —  H  —  il 

^5  1  5  5  5  2  i  Z  41 

•  "  Tb«  mettlni  of  the  W»t»r»  "  forns  a  part  of  that  beautiful  teener;  which  tin  between  Kathdrum  av4  Aralow,  la  0» 
OMBC;  of  Wicalow  ,  sad  these  DDM  wen  tug(Mi*d  07  a  tlslt  to  thx  romantic  tpot  u  tbt  tuiuKr  of  1MT. 
1  1W  ruwt  Avon  lal  Arooa, 

HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 


THROUGH  ERIN'S  ISLE. 

OH  I  THE  SHAMROCK. 
Am.—  "ALLEY  CHOKER." 


AIT.  by  II.  W.  Baun. 


I.  Thro'   Er.'m's  Isle.  To  sport  while,  A3  Lore  airi  Val-or  wao-deml,  With  WH, tie  sprite,  Whose  qoim  brifjbl  A 
t.  Says  Valor  "See!  Tbej  spring  lot  me.Those  leal-j  |ems  of    morn-iagrSaysLOTe.-No,  w.  For  mthej  grow,  Mj 
3.    So     flra-1;  lood  Ma;  last  U»  bond  They  novelist  man  to-  gtth-er.  And    ne'tr  m»y  UI1  One  drop  of  gill  Oo 


-e'er  Uey  pass,  A  triple  grass'Shoou 
ing!"  Bat  Wit  perotirea  The  triple  leaves  And  cr 
divine. Of  th 


n>tt-lj  green,  As  en'mlds  seen,  Thro*  pu-rest  crystal  gleam-ing  f    Oh,  the  Shamrock  !Tbegmo,  immorui  Shamrock  ' 
type  tb«  blends  Three  Godlike  friends.  Ix)fe.  Valor,  Wii,(or-*T    -    er!"    Oh,  the  Shamrock  'Thcgretu.  immorui  Shurock! 
VatoM'er  A  staad-ard  rev    Against  the  cause  of  free-dora!    Oh,  the  Shamrock  IThegrwn,  immortal  Shuarock! 


Chosen  leal  ol  bard  and  cbief.  Old  Eri 
Chosen  leal  ol  bard  aod  chief.  Old  Eri 
Chosen  leal  ol  bard  and  chief.  Old  Eri 


atlve  Sham  rock 


e  pagan 
ong  me 


>  which  In  Ireland  we  give  tbe  name  of  Shamrock,  In 
If  there  he  any  other  reason  for  our  adoption  of 
les  represented  as  a  Beautiful  child.  Handle*  upor 


82  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

NED  OF  THE  HILL. 

Dark  is  the  evening,   and  silent  the  hour, 
Who  is  the  minstrel  by  yonder  lone  tower? 
His  harp  all  so  tenderly  touching  with  skill; 
O,   who  should  it  be,   but  Ned  of  the  Hill? 
Who  sings,   "Lady   love,  come  to  me  now, 
Come  and  live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And  I'll   pillow  thy  head 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 
If  thou  wilt  but  wed  with  Ned  of  the  Hill!" 
Ned  of  the  Hill  has  no  castle  nor  hall, 
Nor   spearmen    nor    bowmen    to    come   at    his    call; 
But  one   little   archer,    of  exquisite  skill, 
Has  shot  a  bright  shaft  for  Ned  of  the  Hill, 
Who  sings,   "Lady  love,   come  to  me  now, 
Come  and   live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And  I'll  pillow  thy  head 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 
If  thou  wilt  but  wed  with  Ned  of  the  Hill!" 
'Tis  hard  to  escape  from  that  fair  lady's  bower. 
For  high  is  the  window,  and  guarded  the  tower; 
"But  there's  always  a  way  where  there  is  a  will," 
So  Ellen   is  off  with  Ned   of  the  Hill! 
Who  sings,   "Lady  love,   thou  art  mine  now.' 
We  will  live  merrily  under  the  bough, 

And    I'll   pillow    thy    head 

Where  the  fairies  tread, 
For  Ellen   is   wed   to   Ned   of  the   Hill!" 


THE   TOWN   OF   PASSAGE. 

The  town  of  Passage 

Is    both    large    and    spacious, 

And  situated 

Upon   the   say ; 
'Tis  nate  and  dacent, 
And    quite   adjacent, 
To   com'e   from   Cork 

On    a   summer's   day. 
There  you   may  slip  in, 
To   take  a  dippin' 
Forenent  the   shippin' 

That  at  anchor  ride; 
Or  in  a  wherry 
Cross  o'er  the  ferry 
To   Carrigaloe 

On  the  other  side. 
Mud    cabins    swarm   in 
This  place  so   charmin' 
With   sailors'   garments 

Hung   out    to  dry; 
And  each  abode  is 
Snug   and    commodious, 
With   pigs   melodious, 

In    their    straw-built   sty 
'Tis  there  the  turf  is, 
And    lots   of   murphies, 
Dead  sprats  and  herrings, 

And   oyster  shells; 
Nor  any   lack,   O! 
Of  good  tobacco, 
Though  what  is  smuggled 

By   far   excels. 
There  are  ships  from  Cadiz, 
And    from   Barbadoes, 
But  the  leading  trade   is 

In    whiskey    punch; 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  8S 

And  you  may  go  in 
Where  one  Molly  Bowen 
Keeps  a   nate   hotel 

For  a   quiet   lunch. 
But  land  or  deck  on, 
You  may  safely   reckon, 
Whatsoever   country 

You  come  hither  from, 
On  an   invitation 
To  a  jollification 
With  a  parish  priest, 

That's  called  "Father  Tom." 
Of  ships  there's  one  fixed 
For    lodging    convicts, 
A  floating  "stone  jug," 

Of  amazing  bulk: 
The  hake  and  salmon, 
Playing   at   bagammon, 
Swim    for    divarsion 

All    round    this    hulk; 
There   "Saxon"  jailors 
Keep   brave  repailers, 
Who   soon   with  sailors 

Must   anchor   weigh 
From  th"  em'rald  island, 
Ne'er  to  see  dry   land   • 
Until   they   spy  land 

In  sweet  Bot'ny  Bay. 

GRA   GAL  MACHREE. 

My  Darling,  I  swear  I  will  love  you  forever; 

O,  look  in  my  face,  love,  and  dry  those  sad  eyes; 
Though   to-morrow   we  part,   yet   this  bosom   shall   never 

Forget  the  dear  home  where  my  soul's  treasure  lies. 
The  bee  loves  the  flowers,  the  small  birds  the  bowers; 

Fair  meadows  look  gay  when  the  sunlight  they  see, 
But   ah,   more  sincerely  my   heart  prizes   dearly, 

The  bloom  on  thy  cheek,  my  sweet  Gra  Gal  Machree. 

Long  years  I  may  wander  o'er  earth  and  wide  ocean, 

From  the  friends  of  my  youth  doomed  an  exile  to  roam; 
Long   years,    yet   the   thoughts  of   this  bosom   shall   never 

Forget  the  dear  friends  of  my  own  dearest  home. 
By  night  or  by  day,  love,  dejected  or  gay,  love, 

Never   from   thee,   love,   my  thoughts   they   can  stray, 
Till    the   exile,    returning   with    hopes    brightly    burning, 

Claims   the   vows  of  his  bethrothed   Gra   Gal    Machree. 


CHEER!   BOYS,   CHEER! 

Cheer!  boys,   cheer!  no  more  of  idle  sorrow; 

Courage!   true  hearts  shall  bear  us  on  our  way, 
Hope  points  before,  and  shows  the  bright  to-morrow; 

Let  us  forget  the  darkness  of  to-day; 
So  farewell,  Erin,  much  as  we  may  love  thee, 

We'll  dry  the  tears  that  we've  shed   before; 
Why  should  we  weep  to  sail  in  search  of  fortune, 

So  farewell,   Erin,   forevermore. 
Cheer!  boys,  cheer!  for  Erin,  dearest  Erin; 

Cheer!   boys,   cheer!   the  willing  strong   right  hand; 
Cheer!   boys,    cheer!   there's   wealth   for  honest  labor; 

Cheer!  boys,  cheer!  for  the  new  and  happy  land. 

Cheer!  boys,   cheer!   the  steady  breeze  is  blowing, 
To  float  us  freely  o'er  the  ocean's  breast, 

The  world  shall  follow  in  the  track  we're  going, 
The  star  of  empire  glitters  in  the  West. 

Here  we  had  toil,  and   little  to  reward  it, 
But  there  shall  plenty  smile  upon  our  pain, 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

And  ours  shall  be  the  prairie  and  the  forest, 
And  boundless  meadows   ripe  with  golden  grain. 

Cheer!   boys,   cheer!   for  Erin,   dearest  Erin; 
Cheer!   boys,  cheer!  united  heart  and  hand; 

Cheer!  boys,  cheer!  there's  wealth  for  honest  labor; 
Cheer!  boys,  cheer!  for  the  new  and  happy  land. 

OLD  IRELAND  I  ADORE. 

Oh!  Erin's  Isle,  my  heart's  delight, 

I   long  to  see  thee  free— 
Where'er  I  am  by  day  or  night, 

This  heart  beats  warm  for  thee. 
I'm  grieved  to  see  thee  so  oppressed, 

But  what  can   I   do  more — 
Oh!   gramachree,   I   weep  for  thee, 

Old  Ireland  I  adore. 
Your  scenes  surpasses  all  on  earth, 

They  are  so  rich  and  rare, 
Your  sons   are  of   the  noblest   birth, 

None   with   them   can   compare; 
Oppressed   and  starved,   they   are 

Compelled    to    wander    from    your    shore. 
Oh,    gramachree,    I   weep   for   thee. 

Old  Ireland   I  adore. 
Oh,  hard  must  ,be  the  tyrant's  heart, 

To   link  you  to  his  chains, 
And  yet  your  sons  have  took  his  part 

On    many    well-fought   plains; 
And  yet  you're  bound  there  as  a  slave, 

While  we  our  loss  deplore. 
Oh,   gramachree,   I  weep  for  thee, 

Old    Ireland    I    adore.  . 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you  have  done, 

That  still  you  can't  be  free; 
But   this   I   know,   you   had   a  son, 

That   struggled    hard    for   thee; 
O'Connell    was    that    hero's    name, 

He  was  known  from   shore  to  shore; 
Oh,  gramachree,   he'd  have  set  thee  free; 

But,  alas!  he  is  no  more. 
If  we  were  free,  as  once  we  were, 

How  happy   might  we  be! 
No   foreign   landlord   then   would   dare 

To  lord  it  over  thee. 
We'd  have  our  homes,   and  bread  to  eat 

As   once    we    had    before. 
Oh,   gramachree,   may   we  live  to  see 

Old   Ireland   free   once  more. 


THE  IEISH  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

Through    lofty    Scotia's   mountains, 

Where   savage   grandeur   reigns, 
Though    bright    be    England's    fountains. 

And  fertile  be  her  plains; 
When    'mid   their   charms    I   wander, 

Of  thee   I   think  the   while, 
And  seem  of  thee  the  fonder. 

My   own  green   Isle! 
While  many  who  have  left  thee, 

Seem   to   forget  thy   name, 
Distance  hath  not  bereft  me 

Of   its   endearing   claim. 
Afar    from    thee    sojourning, 

Whether  I  sigh  or  smile, 
I  call  thee   still   "Mavourneen," 

My  own  green  Isle! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

Fair  as   the  glittering  waters, 

Thy  emerald   banks  that  lave, 
To  me   thy   graceful   daughters; 

Thy   generous    sons   are   brave. 

0  there  are  hearts  within  thee. 
That  know  not  shame  nor  guile, 

And  such  proud  homage  win  thee, 
My  own  green  Isle! 

For  their  dear  sakes  I  love  thee, 

Mavourneen,    though  unseen; 
Bright  be  the  sky  above  thee, 

Thy  shamrock  ever  green! 
May   evil  ne'er   distress   thee, 

Nor  darken,   nor  defile, 
But  Heaven  forever  bless  thee 

My  own  green  Isle. 

THE  COLLEEN  BAWN. 

Och!    Patrick   darlin',   would   you  lave  me 
To  sail  across  the  big  salt  sea? 

1  never  thought  you'd   thus  decave  me; 
It's  not  the  truth  you're  tellin'  me! 

Though  Dublin   is   a  mighty  city, 
It's  there  I  should  be  quite  forlorn, 

For,  poor  and  friendless,  who  would  pity — 
Left  lonely  there— your  Colleen  Bawn? 

You  tell  me  that  your  friends  are  leaving 

The  dear  green  isle,  to  cross  the  main, 
But  don't  you  think  they'll  soon  be  grieving 

For  dear  ould  Ireland  once  again? 
Can   they   forget   each   far-famed   river? 

Each  hill   a   thousand   songs  adorn? 
Can   you    depart   from   them    forever — 

Could  you  forget  your  Colleen  Bawn? 

Sure,  Patrick,  me  you've  been  beguiling, 

It's  not  my  heart  you  mane  to  break, 
Tho'  fortune  may  not  now  be  smiling, 

Your  Colleen  Bawn  you'll  not  forsake; 
I'll   go  with  you  across  the  sea,   dear, 

If  brighter  days  for  us  won't  dawn; 
No  matter  where  our  home  may   be,   dear, 

I  still  will  be  your  Colleen  Bawn. 

O'BLARNEY. 

Oh!  have  you  not  heard  of  O'Blarney, 
Who  came  all  the  way  from  Killarney, 

If  you   fear  a  black   eye, 

Take  warning  and  fly, 
For  a  broth  of  a  boy  is  O'Blarney. 
When    the   potteen,    that's   whisky,   is  steaming, 
'Tis   nought   but   of   fighting  he's   dreaming, 

And,   och,   I   can  tell 

Where  mischief  does   dwell — 
The   shillelah   of   Paddy   O'Blarney. 
Then  should  you  e'er  meet  this  O'Blarney, 
Who  rode  all  on  foot   from  Killarney, 

Beware  of  his  smile, 

Mind   your   eye   all   the   while, 
A  shillelah  has  Paddy  O'Blarney! 
Though  he  looks   so  bewitchlngly  simple 
Och,   faith!   but  he'd   soon   crack  your  pimple, 

And  should  he  inhale 

A  drop  of  the   rale, 
Thea   Ratal's  the  blow  of  O'Blarney! 


SS  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

KATE   OF   GARNAVILLA. 

Have  you   been   at  Garnavilla? 
Have   you   seen   at   Garnavilla 
Beauty's  train  trip  o'er  the  plain 
With    lovely   Kate  of   Garnavilla? 
O,    she's   pure   as   virgin  snows, 

Ere  they  light  on   woodland   hill-0; 
Sweet   as   dewdrop    on   wild    rose, 

Is  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla! 
Philomel,    I've  listened  oft 

To  thy  lay,  nigh  weeping  willow; 
O,  the  strain's  more  sweet,  more  soft, 
That  flows  from  Kate  of  Garnavilla. 

Have  you  been,  etc. 
As  a  noble  ship  I've  seen 

Sailing  o'er  the  swelling  billow, 
So  I've   marked   the   graceful    mien 
Of   lovely   Kate   of   Garnavilla. 

Have  you  been,  etc. 
If  poets'   prayers   can   banish   cares, 

No   cares  shall   come  to   Garnavilla; 
Joy's   bright  rays   shall  gild  her  days. 
And  dove-like  peace   perch  on  her  pillow, 
Charming  maid  of  Garnavilla! 
Lovely   maid    of   Garnavilla! 
Beauty,   grace,   and   virtue  wait 
On  lovely  Kate  of  Garnavilla! 


KATY,   DARLING. 

The  flowers  are  blooming,  Katy  darling. 

And  the  birds  are  singing  on  each  tree, 
Never  mind  your  mother's  cruel   snarling. 

My  love,  you  know  I'm  waiting  for  thee; 
The  sun  is  sweetly  shining, 

With  his  face  so  clear  and  bright, 
Haste  to  your  lover,  Katy,  darling, 

Ere  the  morning  will  change  into  night. 

Katy,    Katy, 

The  flowers  are  blooming,  etc. 
Meet  me  in  the  valley,   Katy,  darling, 

When   the   moon   is   shining   o'er   the  sea, 
O,   meet  me  near  the  stream,   Katy,   darling, 

And  tales  of  love  I'll  tell  to  thee; 
When  the  twinkling  stars  are  peeping, 

Sure  these  eyes   shine  far  more  bright, 
O,  meet  me  in  the  valley,   Katy,   darling, 

And  our  vows   of  love  we'll  pledge  to-night. 
Faith,  I'm  smiling  at  your  fears,  Katy,  darling, 

Then  you  say  you  never  can  be  mine — 
I've  sworn  by  heaven,  Katy,  darling, 

That  this  heart,   love,   alone  was   thine! 
The   sun  is   sweetly  shining, 

With    his   face  so    clear   and  bright, 
O,  come  to  your  lover,   Katy,  darling, 

Ere  the  morning  change   into  night. 

OH!  BAY  OF  DUBLIN. 

Oh!  Bay  of  Dublin;  my  heart  you're  troublin', 

Your  beauty  haunts  me  like  a  fevered  dream, 
Like  frozen  fountains  that  the  sun  sets  bubbling, 

My   hearts    blood   warms  when   I   but  hear  your  name; 
And   never  till  this   life  pulse  ceases, 

My   earliest   thought  you'll   cease   to    be; 
Oh!   there's  no  one  here  knows  how  fair  that  place  i», 

And  no  one  cares  how  dear  it  is  to  me. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  17 

Sweet  Wicklow  mountains!  the  sunlight  sleeping 

On  your  green  banks  is  a  picture  rare, 
You  crowd   around   me.    like  young   girls   peeping, 

And  puzzling  me  to  say  which  is  most  fair; 
As   tho'    you'd   see  your   own    sweet  faces, 

Reflected  in  that  smooth  and  silver  sea, 
Oh!    my   blessin"    on    those    lovely   places, 

Tho'  no  one  cares  how  dear  they  are  to  me. 
How  often  when  at  work  I'm  sitting, 

And  musing   sadly  on  the  days  of  yore, 
I   think  I   see  my   Katy  knitting, 

And   the  children  playing  round  the  cabin  door; 
I  think   I   see  the  neighbor's   faces 

All    gather'd    round,    their    long-lost    friend    to    see: 
Oh!   tho'  no  one  knows  how  fair  that  place  is, 

Heaven  knows  how  dear  my  poor  home  was  to  me. 

THE  EMIGRANT'S   FAREWELL. 

Farewell    Erin,   I  now  must  leave   you, 

And   cross   the  stormy  main — 
Where   cruel   strife  may   end   my   life, 

And   I'll  ne'er  see  you  again. 
It  will  break  my  heart  from  you  to  part, 

Acushla,    Asthore,    Machree; 
For  I  must  go   full   of  grief  and  woe, 

To  the  shores  of  America. 

CHORUS-— So   now  farewell,    I   can   no   longer   dwell 
At  home  Acushla,   Machree; 
For  I  must  go,    full   of  grief  and  woe, 

To  the  shores  of  America. 
On  Irish  soil  my  parents  dwelt, 

Since  the  time  of  Brian  Bpru; 
They  paid   their   rent  and   l!ved   content 

Convenient  to  Killaloo — 
Until  the  landlord  cruel,   sent  us  ashule, 

My  poor  old  mother  and  me; 
They  banished  us   from  home  far  away  to  roam 

To  the  wilds  of  America. 

So  now  farewell,  &c. 
No  more  at  the  churchyard,   Asthore,   Machree, 

On   my   father's   grave  can  I   kneel; 
The  tyrants  know  but  little  of  the  woe 

That  the  poor  man  has  to  feel. 
When    I    look   around    on    the   little   spot   of  ground 

Where  the  cabin  used  to  be; 
I  may  curse  the  laws  which  has  given  me  cause, 

To  depart  to  America. 

So  now  farewell,  &c. 
Where  are  the  neighbors,   kind  and  true, 

That  once  were  our  country's  pride? 
No  more  they  are   seen  at  the  fair  on  the  green, 

Or   the  dance  by   the  green  hill   side; 
It   is   the   stranger's    cow   that   is   grazing  now, 

Where  the  people  used  to  be; 
With  notice  they  were  served  and  turned  out  to  starve, 

Or  banished  to  America. 

So  now  farewell,  &c. 
O   Erin,    Machree,   must  your  children   be 

Exiled   all    over  the   earth — 
Will  they  think  no  more  of  you  Asthore, 
\      The   land    that   gave    them    birth — 

Must  the  Irish  yield  to  the  beast  of  the  field? 

O.  no,    Asthore,    Machree, 
They  are  going  away  in  ships,   with  vengeance  on  their  lips, 

To.  return    from    America. 

So  now  farewell,  &c. 


8S  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  GREEN  ABOVE  THE  BED. 

Pull  often  when   our  fathers   saw  the  Red  above  the  Green, 

They  rose  In  rude  but  fierce  array,  with  sabre,  pike,  and  Bcian, 

And   over  many  a  noble  town,   and  many  a  field  of  dead, 

They  proudly  set  the  Irish  Green  above  the  English  Red. 

But   In  the   end,   throughout   the  land,   the   shameful  sight  wag  seen— 

The  English  Red  in  triumph  high  above  the  Irish  Green ; 

But  well   they   died   in   breach  and  field,   who,   as    their   spirits   fled, 

Still  saw  the  Green  maintain  its  place  above  the  English  Red. 

And  they  who  saw,  in  after  times,  the  Red  above  the  Green, 

Were  withered  as  the  grass  that  dies  beneath  the  forest  screen; 

Yet  often  by  this  healthy   hope  their  sinking  hearts   were   fed, 

That,  in  some  day  to  come,  the  Green  should  flutter  o'er  the  Red. 

Sure  It  was  for  this  Lord  Edward  died,  and  Wolfe  Tone  sunk  serene— 

Because  they  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  Red  above  the  Green; 

And   'twas  for  this   that  Owen  fought,   and    Sarsfield   nobly   bled — 

Because  their  eyes  were  hot  to  see  the  Green  above  the  Red. 

So,   when  the  strife  began  again,  our  darling  Irish  Green 

Was  down  upon  the  earth,  while  high  the  English  Red  was  seen; 

Yet  still  we  hold  our  fearless  course,  for  something   in  us  said, 

"Before  the  strife  is  o'er  you'll  see  the  Green  above  the  Red." 

And  'tis  for  this  we  think  and  toil,  and  knowledge  strive  to  glean, 

That  we  may  pull   the  English   Red   below   the   Irish   Green, 

And  leave  our  sons  sweet  Liberty,  and  smiling  plenty  spread 

Above  the  land  once  dark  with  blood— the  Green  above  the  Red! 


MY  BOAT  IS  ON  THE   SHORE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea; 
But,  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here's  a  double  health  to  thee. 
Here's  a  sigh  for  those  that  love, 

And   a  smile   for   those  who  hate, 
And  whatever  sky's  above, 

Here's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 
Though  the  ocean  roars  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on; 
Though    a    desert    should    surround    me. 

It   hath   springs   that   may    be    won. 
Wer't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasp  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  sinking  spirits   fell, 

'Tis  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 
In  this  water  as  this  wine. 

The  libations  I  would  pour 
Should  be  peace  to  thee  and  thln«, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 


MAUREEN. 

The  cottage  is  here,  as  of  old  I  remember, 

The  pathway  is  worn  as  it  ever  hath  been: 
On  the  turf -piled  hearth  there  still  lives  a  bright  ember; 
But,— where  is  Maureen? 

The  same  pleasant  prospect  still  shlneth  before  me, — 

The  river — the  mountain — the  valley  of  green. 
And  heaven  itself  (a  bright  blessing!)  Is  o'er  me! 
But, — where  is  Maureen? 

Lost!    Lost! — Like  a  dream  that  hath  come  and  departed; 

(Ah,   why  are   the   loved  and   lost   ever   seen?) 
She  hath  fallen,— hath  flown,  with  a  lover  false-hearted; 
So,  mourn  for  Maureen! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

And  she,  who  so  loved  her,  is  slain  (the  poor  mother), 

Struck   dead   in   a  day,  by  a  shadow  unseen! 
And  the  home  we  now  loved,  is  the  home  of  another. 

And— lost    is    Maureen ! 

Sweet  Shannon!  a  moment  by  thee  let  me  ponder; 
A  moment  look  back  at  the  things  that  have  been; 
Then,  away  to   the  world  where  the  ruined  ones  wander, 

To  seek  for   Maureen! 
Pale  peasant,  perhaps,  'neath  the  frown  of  high  heaven, 

She  roams  the  dark  desert  of  sorrow  unseen, 
Unpltied, — unknown;  but  I — I  shall   know  even 
The  ghost  of  Maureen! 


THE  SPRIG  OF   SHILLELAH. 

Och,  love  is  the  soul  of  a  nate  Irishman, 
He  loves  all  the  lovely,  loves  all  that  he  can, 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green. 
His  heart  is  good-humour'd— 'tis  honest  and   sound, 
No   malice   or   hatred  is   there   to   be    found, 
He  courts   and  he  marries,   he  drinks  and  he  fights, 
For  love,  all   for  love,   for  in  that  he  delights, 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green. 

Who  has  e'er  had  the  luck  to  see  Donnybrook  fair? 
An   Irishman  all  in   his  glory  is  there, 

With  his  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green: 
His  clothes  spick  and  span  new,  without  e'er  a  speck, 
A  neat  Barcelona  tied  round  his  white  neck: 
He  goes  to  a  tent  and  he  spends  half  a  crown. 
He  meets  with  a  friend — and  for  love  knocks  him  down 

With  a  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green. 

At  evening  returning,   as  homeward  he  goes, 

His  heart  soft  with  whiskey,  his  head   soft  with  blows 

From  a  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green, 
He  meets  with  his  Shelah,  who,  blushing  a  smile, 
Cries,    "Get  ye   gone,    Pat,"    yet   consents   all   the   while—- 
To the  priest  then  they  go — and,  nine  months  after  that, 
A  fine  baby  cries  out  "How  d'ye  do,  father  Pat, 

With  your  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green." 

Bless  the  country,  say  I,  that  gave  Patrick  his  birth, 
Bless   the  land  of   the  oak,    and   its   neighbouring  earth, 

Where  grows  the  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green. 
May  the  sons  of  the  Thames,  the  Tweed,  and  the  Shannon, 
Drub  the  foe  who  dares  plant  on  our  confines  a  cannon: 
United  and  happy,  at  loyalty's  shrine. 
May  the  rose,  leek,  and  thistle  long  flourish  and  twine 
Round  a  sprig  of  shillelah  and  shamrock  so  green. 

NORAH  DARLING. 

Norah    darling,    don't   believe   them, 

Never  heed  their  flattering  wiles, 
Trust  a  heart   that  loves  thee  dearly. 

Lives  but  in  thy   sunny  smiles— 
I  must  leave  thee,  Norah  darling, 

But   I    leave   my   heart   with   thee; 
Keep  it,   for  'tis  true  and  faithful 

As  a  loving   heart  can  be. 

When    the    stars    are    round    me    glist'nlng, 

And  the  moon   shines  bright  above. 
Perhaps,  my  Norah,   thou'lt  be  list'ning 

To   another  tale   of  love. 
Perhaps  they'll  tell  thee  I'll  forget  thee. 

Teach  thy  gentle  heart  to  fear; 
Oh,   my   Norah,    never  doubt  me — 

Don't  believe  them,  Norah  dear. 


90  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

They   must   love   thee,    Norah   darling 

When  they  look  Into  those  eyes, 
Oh,  thou'lt  never  let  them  rob  me 

Of  the  heart  I  dearly  prize. 
Thou   wilt  not   forget  me,   Norah, 

When   their   tales  of   love   you   hear, 
Never   heed   their  treacherous   whispers, 

Don't   believe   them,    Norah   dear. 


ERIN  OF  THE  STREAMS. 

You  ask  me  then  to  sing; 

Come  your  wine   and  goblets  bring, 
I've  a  toast  that  shall   light  up  your  eyes — 

It   is  my   country's   name, 

With  her  proud  and   holy  fame — 

Here's  to  Erin  of  the  Streams — then  arise! — then  arise! 
Here's  to  Erin  of  the  Streams — then  arise! 

When  last  our  proud  flag  rose, 

To  strike   ruin  on  our  foes, 
Midst  the  ranks  of  that  foe  did  it  fall. 

Next  time   our  hands   unfold 

This  dear  flag  of  green   and  gold, 

O'er  a  nation  shall  it  wave — lov'd  by  all! — lov'd  by  all! 
O'er  a  nation  shall  it  wave — loved  by  all. 

Then  fill  your  goblets  high, 

And  drink  your  bumpers  dry, 
Sure   souls   like  our  own   shall  be  free! 

Of  love  let  others  sing. 

Among  us  this  toast  shall  ring — 

Here's  to  Erin   of  the   Streams — drink  with   me — drink   with  me! 
Here's  to  Erin  of  the  Streams — drink  .with  me — drink  with  me! 


MARCH  TO  THE   BATTLE  FIELD. 

March  to  the  battle  field, 

The  foe  is   now  before  us; 
Each   heart  is  freedom's  shield, 
And   heaven    is   smiling   o'er   us. 
The   woes   and   pains, 
The    galling   chains, 
That  keep   our  spirits  under, 
In  proud  disdain, 
We've  broken   again, 
And  tore  each  link  asunder. 

March  to  the,   &c. 
Who,    for   his   country   brave, 

Would   fly  from   her   invader? 
Who,   his   base  life  to   save, 
Would,  traitor-like,  degrade  her? 
Our  hallow'd   cause. 
Our  home  and  laws, 
'Gainst  tyrant  power  sustaining, 
We'll  gain  a  crown 
Of  bright  renown, 
Or   die — our   rights    maintaining! 
March  to  the,   &c. 

HOW  DEAR  TO  ME   THE  HOUR. 

How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies, 

And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea: 
For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 

And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  to  thee. 
And  ,as  I  watch  the  line  of  light  that  plays 

Along  the  smooth  wave  toward  the  burning  west, 
I  long  to  tread  that   golden  path  of  rays, 

And  think  'twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest. 
At  lore's  young  dream! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  91 

THE   IRISHMAN. 

The  savage  loves  his  native  shore, 

Tho'  rude  the  soil  and  chill  the  air, 
Then   well   may  Erin's  sons  adore 

Their  isle  which  nature  formed  so  fair. 
What  flood   reflects   a   show   so  sweet, 

As  Shannon's  great  or  pastoral  band, 
Or   who   a   friend   or  foe   can    meet, 

So  gen'rous  as  an  Irishman? 
Tho'  his  hand  be  rash,  his  heart  is  warm 

And   principle  is  still   his   guide, 
None  more  regrets   a  deed  of  harm, 

None  more  forgives  with  nobler  pride; 
He   may  be  duped,   but  won't  be  dared; 

But  fit  to  practice  and  to  plan, 
He  ably  earns  his  poor  reward, 

And  spends  it  like  an  Irishman. 
If  poor  in  weal,  he'll  for  you  pay, 

And  guide  you  where  you  safe  may  be; 
If   you're   his   comrade,    whilst  you  stay 

His  cottage  holds  a  jubilee; 
His   inmost   soul    he   will    unlock, 

And  if  he  may  your  merits  scan, 
Your  confidence   he  scorns  to  mock, 

For  faithful  is  an   Irishman. 
By  honor  bound  in  woe  or  weal, 

Whate'er  she  bids  he  dares  to  do, 
Try  him  with  gold,  it  won't  prevail, 

But  e'en  in  fire  you'll  find  him  true; 
He   seeks  not   safety — let  his   post 

Be  where  there's  aught  in  danger's  van; 
Or,   if  the   field  of  fame  be  lost 

It   won't  be   by   an  Irishman. 
Erin's  lov'd  land,   from  age  to  age, 

Be  thou  more  great,  more  fam'd  and  free, 
May  peace  be  yours,  or  should  you   wage 

Defensive   wars,    cheap    victory, 
May  plenty  flow  in  every  field, 

And   gentle   breezes   sweetly   fan. 
May   cheerful  smiles   serenely   glide, 

In   the   breast  of   every   Irishman. 


MA  AILLEEN  ASTHORE. 

When  waking  with  the  rosy  day, 

From  golden  dreams  of  thee, 
I    watch    the   orient   sunbeams    play, 

Along  the   purple   sea; 
O  then   I   could   not  choose  but  weep, 

As  thou  wert  mine  no  more, 
Ah,   grammachree,   ma  cholleenouge, 

Ma  Ailleen  Asthore! 
When    twilight    brings    the    weeping    hours 

That  sadden  all  the  grove, 
And  angels   leave   their  starry   bowers 

To   watch   o'er  faithful  love, 
Thy  parting  words,  to  me  so  sweet, 

I  breathe  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Ah,   grammachree,   ma  cholleenouge, 

Ma  Ailleen  Asthore! 
But  soon  they'll  lay  me  in  the  grave, 

Where    broken    hearts    should   be; 
And  when,   beyond   the  distant  wave, 

Thou    dream'st    of    meeting    me. 
My  sorrows  all   will   be   forgot, 

And  all  the  love  I  bore, 
Ah,   grammachree,   ma  cholleenouge, 

Ma  Ailleen  Asthore! 


92  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

IRISH  MOLLY  0. 

Oh!  who  is  that  poor  foreigner  that  lately  came  to  town, 

And  like  a  ghost  that  cannot  rest  still  wanders  up  and  down? 

A  poor   unhappy  Scottish   youth; — if  more  you   wish  to   know, 

His  heart  is  breaking  all  for  love  of  Irish  Molly  O! 

She's   modest,   mild  and  beautiful,    the   fairest   I  have  known — 

The  primrose  of  Ireland — all  blooming  here  alone — 

The  primrose  of  Ireland — for  wheresoe'er  I  go 

The  only  one  entices  me  is  Irish  Molly  O! 

When  Molly's  father  heard  of  it,  a  solemn  oath  he  swore, 
That  if  she'd  wed  a  foreigner  he'd  never  see  her  more, 
He  sent  for  young  MacDonald  and  he  plainly  told  him  so — 
"I'll  never  give  to  such  as  you  my  Irish  Molly  O!" 
She's  modest,  &c. 

MacDonald  heard  the  heavy  news,— and  grievously  did  say — 
"Farewell   my   lovely    Molly — since   I'm   banished   far  away, 
A  poor  forlorn  pilgrim  I  must  wander  to  and  fro, 
And  all  for  the  sake  of  my  Irish  Molly  O! 

She's  modest,  &c. 

"There  Is  a  rose  In  Ireland— I  thought  it  would  be  mine; 
But  now  that  she  is  lost  to  me,  I  must  for  ever  pine, 
Till  death  shall  come  to  comfort  me,  for  to  the  grave  I'll  go; 
And  all  for  the  sake  of  my  Irish   Molly  O! 
She's  modest,  &c. 

"And  now  that  I  am  dying— this  one  request  I  crave, 
To  place  a  marble  tombstone  above  my  humble  grave. 
And  on  the  stone  these  simple  words  I'd  have  engraven  so — 
MacDonald  lost  his  life  for  love  of  Irish  Molly  O!" 
She's  modest,  &c. 


MY  DEAR  LITTLE  IRISH   COLLEEN. 

When  wild  flowers  wake  from  their  slumbers, 

And   shake  the  bright  dew  from  each   breast; 
And  Robin  pours  forth  his  sweet  numbers, 

To  mate  tucked  away  in  her  nest; 
What  form  noiseless  trips   o'er  the  clover, 

With  step  and   with  grace  of  a  queen. 
The  neighbors  all  know  her  and  love  her, 

My  dear  little  Irish  Colleen. 

REFRAIN.— My  dear  Irish  Colleen, 

She's  my  life  and   my  Queen; 
As  she  steps  o'er  the  green 

She  enriches  its  sheen; 
Her  voice  is  as  sweet  as  a  thrush's, 

And  in  innocence  peeps  thro'  her  blushes, 
As   homeward    she    sweeps    through    the   rushes, 

My   dear  little  Irish   Colleen. 

She  hums  an  old  song  in  her  hurry 

A  linnet  takes  up  the  refrain; 
The  whole   feathered  tribe  in   a  flurry 

Bid  welcome  again  and  again; 
With  cheeks  like  the  morning  as  rosy 

And  dimples  and  laughter  between, 
And  lips  that  might  anger  a  posy, 

Responds  the  dear  Irish  Colleen.— Cho. 

Each  land  in  its  maidens  takes  pleasure 

And  each  deems  its  own  most  supreme; 
But  oh,  how  the  Celt's  heart  doth  treasure 

His  darling  of  youth's  virgin  dream. 
Again   when   night  flees   'fore  the  morrow. 

She  trips  lightly  down  the  boreen, 
And   blackbird   and  thrush   music   borrow, 

Once  more  from  an  Irish  Colleen. — Cho. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

KATE   OF   KILKENNY. 

Since  I've  wandered  away  from  that  beautiful  land, 

The  dearest  on  earth  still  to  me, 

In  my  dreams   I  go  back  like  the  waves  to  its  strand, 

Where   a  cabin  stands  facing  the  sea. 

For  a  Colleen  dwells  there, 

In  that  cabin  of  turf, 

And  she  waits  for  her  exile's  return, 

And   her   sighs   often   blend   with    the  sigh   of  the  surf, 

Though  still  brightly  the  rush  light  may  burn. 
CHOR.US. — She's  a  fair  Irish  flower  'With  love  for  her  dower, 
The  sun  in  her  eyes  and  its  gold  in  her  hair, 
She  is  sweeter  than  any,  is  Kate  of  Kilkenny, 
No  girl  in  all  Ireland  with  her  can  compare. 

When  the  night  with  her  stars  spreads  a  veil  o'er  the  deep, 

The  man   in  the  moon   I  would  be, 

Sure  I'd  beam  on  her  face,  till  she'd  wake  from  her  sleep, 

Then   I'd   know   she  was  looking  at  me. 

I  would  crown  her  dear  head, 

With  a  halo  as  bright, 

As  the  saints  of  her  own  native  land, 

She's  the  saint  of  my  soul  on  her  shrine  there  to-night, 

In  that  cabin  of  turf  on   the  sand. 


BY  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  SHANNON". 

Where  the  shamrocks  grow  green  on  the  banks  of  the  Shannon, 

And  bend  to  the  breezes  that  over  them  sigh; 
How  often  I've  wandered  with   sweet  Nellie  Bannon, 

And  whispered  of  love  in  the  bright  days  gone  by. 
It  was  there  we  first  met,  there  in  sorrow  we  parted, 

When  I  left  her  to  roam  o'er  the  wide  rolling  sea; 
But  I  know  that  the  Colleen  I  love  is  true-hearted, 

And  waits  by  the  banks  of  the  Shannon  for  me. 
REFRAIN.— 

Oh,   how  my  dear  Nellie  Bannon  I  long  to  see, 
There  by  the   banks   of  the   Shannon  she  waits   for  me; 
Fondly  I  yearn  to  return   to  my  Irish  home, 

Afar  from  the  Shannon  and  sweet  Nellie  Bannon,  no  more  to  roam. 
Her  heart  is  as  pure  as  the  stars  that  are  burning 

Above  the   green   valley   that  cradles   her  rest; 
Where  fondly  she  waits  for  her  lover's  returning, 

And  longs  to  repose  once  again  on  his  breast, 
Tho'   I've  wandered  thro'   scenes  wealth  environs  with  splendor, 

Where  on  pinions  of  pleasure  the  bright  moments  flee; 
Still  I  long  to  return  to  the  love  true  and  tender, 

That  waits  by  the  banks  of  the  Shannon  for  me. 

KOBEHT  EMMET. 

They  tell  us  to  breathe  not  the  patriot's  name, 

They  say  let  it  rest  in  the  gloom; 
But  can  we  forget  all   the  glory  and  fame 

Of  him  who  sleeps  cold  in  the  tomb? 
Forget  him!  oh,  never,  while  one  of  our  rac» 

On  the  soil  of  Ireland  remains; 
His   epitaph   brightly  in  jewels   we'll  trace 

When  Erin  her  freedom  regains. 
In  ages  to  come  will  his  name  still  be  blest, 

Who  loved  his  dear  country  so  well, 
And  forever  deep,  deep  in  each  patriot's  breast 

Will  his  fame  and  his  memory  dwell. 
He  parted  with  all  and  he  joined  in  the  strife, 

With   freedom's  bright  banner  in  hand; 
He   left   his   heart's   love,    and   he   gave   his   young   life 

To  raise  up  our  down-trodden  land. 


94  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

He  died  for  his  land  on  the  high  gallows  tre«, 
With  the  dark  tyrant's  cord  'round  him  cast; 

He  died  as  all  should  who  would  work  to  be  free, 
Defiant  and  true  to  the  last. 

Oh,  heaven!  I  pray,  ere  I  rest  In  the  grave, 
I  may  see  by  the  Liffey's  gray  tide 

The  green  flag  of  Ireland  triumphantly  wave 
O'er  the  spot  where  our  brave  hero  died. 


EXILE'S   LAMENT. 

Beneath  a  far-off  Australian  sky  an  Irish  exile  lay, 

The  sand  from  out  his  glass  of  life  was  ebbing  fast  away; 

The  friends   that  stood  around  his  bed  his  eyes  could  scarcely  see, 

His  thoughts  which  soon  would  be  at  rest  were  far  across  the  sea. 

In  spirit  once  again  he  stood  upon  his  native  sod, 

Where  as  a  child  and  as  a  man  his  foot  had  lightly  trod; 

In  fancy  he  could  feel  upon  his  brow  the  mountain  air, 

And  from  his  lips  there  issued  forth  the  exile's  prayer: 

CHORUS.— 

Lay  me  on  the  hillside,  with  my  face  toward  the  west, 
Toward  that  sacred   island,   the  land  that  I  love  best; 
Let   a  bXinch  of  shamrocks   green   be  planted  o'er  my  grave, 
My  dying  prayer  is:  God  bless  the  island  of  the  brave. 
Eviction  foul  and  cruel  sent  him  far  across  the  foam, 
From  that  sweet  spot  which  Irishmen,  where'er  they  may  be,  call  home; 
The  land   whose  halls  have  felt  the  tread  of  princes  and  of   kings, 
Whose  harp  once   wooed  the   world   is  now   a  mass   of   broken   string*. 
They  were  forced  to  leave  the  land  which  gave  their  fathers  birth, 
As  strangers  and  as  outcasts  to  wander  o'er  the  earth; 
The  time  came  back  to  him  again  when  he  was  but  a  child, 
With  mem'ries  of  sweet  rambles  thro'  her  wood  and  valleys  wild. 
Each  eye  was  wet  with  briny  tears,  his  words  had  touched  the  heart, 
For  they  were  exiles,   too,   and  time  had  failed  to  heal  their  smart; 
In  every  clime  beneath  the  sky  the  Irish  race  is  seen, 
Yet  still  their  every  thought  is  fixed  upon  that  isle  of  green. 
He  calls   his   friends   around  him,    for  the  end  is  drawing  near, 
And  from  his  pale  and  haggard  cheek  they  wiped  away  a  tear; 
Another  victim  of  misrule  has  felt  the  band  of  death, 
God  bless  you,  Ireland,   were  the  words  which  filled  his  dying  breath. 

WHEN   THOU   ART   NIGH. 

When  thou  art  nigh   it  seems  a  new  creation  round; 
The  sun  hath  fairer  beams,  the  lute  a  softer  sound, 
Tho'  thee  alone  I  see  and  hear  alone  thy  sigh; 
'Tis  light,  'tis  song  to  me,  'tis  all  when  thou  art  nigh. 

When  thou  art  nigh  no  thought  of  grief  comes  o'er  my  heart; 
I   only   think — could   aught  but  joy  be   where  thou   art? 
Life  seems  a  waste  of  breath  when  far  from  thee  I  sigh; 
And  death — aye,  even  death,   were  sweet  if  thou  wert  nigh. 

THE  VOW  OF  TIPPERAKY. 

From    Carrick    streets    to    Shannon    shore 
From    Slievenamon    to    Balllndeary 
From   Longford-pass   to   Galtymore — 
Come,  hear  The  Vow  of  Tipperary. 

"Too  long  we  fought  for  Britain's  caui9, 
And  of  our  blood  were  never  chary; 
She  paid  us  back  with  tyrant's  laws, 
And  thinned   The  Homes  of  Tipperary. 

"But  never  more  we'll  win  such  thanks: 
We   swear  by    God,    and   Virgin    Mary, 
Never  to  'list  in  British  ranks;" 
And   that's   The   Vow  of  Tipperary. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  95 

THREE   LEAVES   OF   SHAMROCK. 

When  leaving  dear  old  Ireland  in  the  merry  month  of  June, 

The  birds  were  sweetly  singing,  and  all  nature  seemed  in  tune, 

Aii  Irish  girl  accosted  me,  with  a  sad  tear  in  her  eye, 

And,  as  she  spoke  these  words  to  me,  bitterly  did  cry; 

Kind  sir,   I   ask   a  favor,   oh,   grant  it  to  me,   please. 

'Tis  not  much  that  I  ask  of  you,  but  'twill  set  my  heart  at  ease. 

Take  these  to  my  brother  Ned,  who's  far  across  the  sea, 

And  don't  forget  to  tell  him,  sir,  that  they  were  sent  by  me. 

CHORUS.— 

Three   leaves  of  shamrock,  the  Irishman's   shamrock. 
From   his   own   darling   sister,   her  blessing,   too,   she  gave; 

Take  them  to  my  brother,  for  I  have  no  one  other, 

And  these  are  the  shamrocks  from  his  dear  old  mother's  grave. 
Tell  him  since   he  went  away  how  bitter  was  our  lot, 
The  landlord  came  one  winter  day  and  turned  us  from  our  cot; 
Our  troubles  were  so  many,   and  our  friends  so  very  few, 
And,  brother,  dear,  our  mother  used  to  often  sigh  for  you. 
Oh,  darling  son,  come  back!  she  often  used  to  say; 
Alas!  one  day  she  sickened,  and  soon  was  laid  away. 
Her  grave  I've  water'd  with  my  tears,  that's  where  the  flowers  grew, 
And,  brother,  dear,  they're  all  I've  got,  and  them  I'll  send  to  you. 

A  HANDFUL  OF  EARTH. 

I  must  leave  this  dear  old  place  where  my  childhood  days  were  spent, 

And  the  cottage,   hidden  'mong  the  purple  hills, 
I  must  say  good-by  to  all  that  have  made  my  life  content, 

How  the  thoughts  with  bitter  tears  my  eyes  it  fills; 
But  before  I  go  away,  to  return  again  no  more, 
Ere   I   wander    in   that   land   beyond   the  wave, 
In  the  memory  I'll  take  of  the  golden  days  of  yore 

Just   a  handful   of  earth   from  mother's  grave. 
CHORUS.— 

Just  a  handful  of  earth  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 

For  mem'ry's  sweet  sake  I   will  save, 

From   the   lowly   green   mound,   in   the  grim   churchyard   ground, 
Just  a  handful  of  earth  from  mother's  grave. 

When   I've   crossed   the   deep   blue   sea  and   look  back   on  Erin's   shore, 

As  it  slowly  fades  beyond  the  distance  fair, 
Tho'  my  thoughts  snd  heart  be  sad,  it  will  comfort  me  the  more 

That  I  bear  this  token  of  her  love  and  care;  i 

And,  when  troubles  shall  assail  in  the  pathway  of  my  life, 

I  will  struggle  on   in   silence  and  be  brave, 
For  'twill  guide  me  safely  through  ev'ry  worldy  care  and  strife, 

Just  this  handful   of  earth   from   mother's  grave. 


IN    DUBLIN'S    SWEET    CITY. 

In  Dublin's  sweet  city,  that  city  so  fair, 

Och!  who  is  the  creature  that  has  not  been  there, 

Just  to  see  all  the  gems  of  our  emerald  Isle, 
Its  Bay,  and  its  Mov.ntains,  its  turrets  and  domes, 
And  oh!  more  than  all  its  true  warm-hearted  homes, 

Where  the  sunshine  of  life  is  her  daughter's  sweet  smile, 
You  may  traverse  the  Globe  'mongst  the  rich,  and  the  poor, 
May  enter  the  cottage,   or  fine  gilded  door, 
But  wherever  you  wander,  wherever  you  rove, 
'Tis  in  Ireland  alone  that  you'll  find  Irish  love, 

And  their  sprigs  of  Shillelagh,  and  Shamrock  so  green. 

There  is  no  harm  in  speaking  of  Donnybrook  fair, 

For  the  tune  that  I'm  singing  they  say  was  sung  there, 

In  praise  of  ould  Ireland  the  gem  of  the  sea. 
'Tis  a  country  so  perfect  in  every  respect, 
That  to  lave  out  a  virtue  might  seem  like  neglect, 

Tho'  to  mention  them  all,  is  perhaps  not  for  me. 


96  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

H«r  sons  are  so  gallant,  so  noble,  so  true, 
So  fond  of  their  country,  their  patriots  not  few, 
That  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  is  never  unstrung, 
But  strikes  in  bold  chords  to  the  air  that  is  sung 

Of  the  sprigs  of  shillelagh  and  shamrock  BO  green. 


THE  ROSE  OF  TKAIEE. 

Th«  pale  moon  was  rising  above  the  green  mountain, 

The  sun  was  declining  beneath  the  blue  sea, 
When   I   strayed   with   my   love  to   the   pure  crystal   fountain 

That  stands  in  the  beautiful  vale  of  Tralee. 
She  was  lovely  and  fair  as  the  rose  in  the  summer, 

Yet  'twas  not  her  Ifeauty  alone  that   won  me, 
Oh,  no,  'twas  the  truth  in  her  eye  ever  dawning, 

That  made  me  love  Mary,  the  rose  of  Tralee. 
The  cool  shades  of  ev'ning  their  mantle  was  spreading, 

And  Mary,  all  smiling  and  list'ning  to  me, 
The  moon  thro'  the  valley  her  pale  rays  was  shedding, 

When  I  won  the  heart  of  the  rose  of  Tralee. 

Though  lovely  and  fair,  &c. 

BEAUTIFUL   GIRL   OF  KILDARE. 

Beautiful  girl  of  Kildare,  I'm  dreaming,   sweet  one,  of  thee, 

Far  o'er  the  sea  we  must  part,  it  makes  me  sad,  oh,  it  breaks  my  heart; 

But  be  of  good  cheer,  I  will  see  thee  again, 

Where  naught  will  disturb  our  hearts,  cause  us  pain; 

Then  we'll  be  happy  and  free  from  all  care,  • 

My  beauty,  my  beautiful  girl  of  Kildare. 

Beautiful  girl  of  Kildare,  oh,  she  Is  so  sweet  to  me, 

Her  eyes  are  deep  blue  and  her  hair  it  is  loving  and  flowing  so  fre«, 

Oh,  say,  must  we  part  in  this  wide  world  of  pain? 

Not  long,  for  we'll  soon  see  each  other  again; 

Then  we'll  be  happy  and  free  from  all  care, 

My  beauty,  my  beautiful  girl  of  Kildare. 

AN    IRISH    FAIR    DAY. 

My  mem'ry  steals  back  to  the  land  of  my  birth 

No   matter  where  I   may  roam, 
And  I  think  of  the  merry  old  times  we  would  have 

On  a  Fair  day  at  home; 
When  the  lads  and  the  lasses  would  tip  off  their  glasses, 

They'd  smile  and  look  pretty  as  the  blossoms  In  May, 
They'd  sing  and  they'd  dance  to  the  sweet  Irish  music 

You  only  could  hear  on  an  Irish  Fair  day. 
CHORUS.— 

An  Irish  Fair  day,  an  Irish  Fair  day, 
Oh,  give  me  an  Irish  Fair  day; 
When  the  lads  and  the  lasses  would  tip  off  their  glasses, 

And  smile  and  be  happy  on  an  Irish  Fair  day. 
How  often  I've  tripped  o'er  the  meadows  so  green, 

My  darling  colleen  by  my  side, 
And  made  the  bright  roses  appear  on  her  cheeks. 

When   I   called   her  my  beautiful   bride. 
With  lips  like  the  cherry,  her  laugh  was  so  merry, 

Her  foot  was  as  light  as  fairies  at  play. 
How  the  old  people  watched  us  keep  time  to  tb"  pipers 

In  dancing  the  jigs  on  an  Irish  Fair  day. 
Oh,  I  love  to  remember  those  merry  old  day?, 

The  days  that  shall  come  back  no  more, 
When  our  hearts  were  as  light  as  the  birds  in  the  air 

That  sang  upon  Erin's  green  shore; 
With  dancing  and  singing  we  kept  the  place  ringing, 

We'd  kiss  the  fair  lasses  or  fight  in  a  fray, 
But  we  parted  as  brother,  there  was  no  bad  feeling 

To  mar  the  good  times  of  an  Irish  Fair  day. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  97 

THE  BARD  OF  ARMAGH. 

Ob,  listen  to  the  lay  of  a  poor  Irish  harper, 

And  scorn  not  the  strains  of  his  old  withered  hands, 
But    remember   those    fingers    they    once    could    move   sharper 

In  raising   the  merry  strains  of  his  dear  native  land; 
It  was   long  before  the  shamrock,   dear  isle,    lovely  emblem, 

Was  crushed  in  its  beauty  by  the  Saxon's  lion  paw, 
And  all  the  pretty  colleens  around  me  would  gather, 

Call  me  their  bold  Phelim  Brady,  the  bard  of  Armagh. 

How  I  love  to  muse  on  the  days  of  my  boyhood, 

Though  four  score  and  three  years  have  flew  by  them, 
It's   king's   sweet  reflection   that   every   young  joy, 

For  the  merry-hearted  boys  make  the  best  of  old  men. 
At  a  fair  or  a  wake  I  could  twist  my  shillelah, 

And  trip  through  a  dance  with  my  brogues  tied  with  straw, 
There  all  the   pretty  maidens  around  me  would  gather, 

Call  me  their  bold  Phelim  Brady,  the  bard  of  Armagh. 

In  truth  I  have  wandered  this  wide  world  over, 

Yet  Ireland's  my  home  and  a  dwelling  for  me, 
And,   oh,   let  the  turf  that  my  old  bones  shall  cover 

Be  cut  from  the   land   that  is  trod  by  the  free; 
And  when  Sergeant  Death  in  his  cold  arms  doth  embrace, 

And   lulls  me  to   sleep  with  old  Erin-go-bragh ! 
By  the  side  of  my  Kathleen,  my  dear  pride,   oh,  place  me, 

Then   forget  Phelim   Brady,   the   bard   of  Armagh. 

GARDEN  WHERE   THE   PRATIES   GROW. 

Have  you  ever  been  in  love,  boys,  did  you  ever  feel  the  pain? 

I'd  rather  be  in  jail,  I  would,  than  be  in  love  again; 

Though  the  girl  I  love  is  beautiful,   T'd  have  you  all  to  know 

That  I  met  her  in  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

CHORUS.— 

She  was  just  the  sort  of  creature  that  nature  did  intend 
To  walk  about  this  wide  world  without  a  Grecian  bend; 
Nor  did  she  wear  a  chignon  I'd  have  you  all  to  know 
That  I  met  her  in  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

She  was  singing  an  old  Irish  song  called  Gra  gal,   Machree. 
Oh,  says  I,  what  a  wife  she'd  make  for  an  Irish  boy  like  me; 
I  was  on  important  business,  but  I  did  not  like  to  go 
To  leave  the  girl  or  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

Say  I:   My  lovely  fair  maid,   I  hope  you'll   pardon  me; 

But  she  wasn't  like  the  city  girls  that'd  say  you're  making  free! 

She  answered  right  modestly,  and  curtsied  very  low, 

Saying:     You're  welcomed  to  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

Says  I:     My  lovely  darling,  I'm  tired  of  single  life, 
And,   if  you  have  no  objection,   I'll  make  you   my  dear  wife. 
Says  she:     I'll  ask  my  parents,  and  to-morrow  I'll  let  you  know, 
If  you  meet  me  in  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

Now    her    parents    they    consented,    we're    blessed    with    children    three, 
Two  girls  like  their  mammy,  and  a  boy  the  image  of  me; 
I'll  train  up  the  children  in  the  way  they  should  go, 
But  I'll  ne'er  forget  the  garden  where  the  praties  grow. 

BONNY   IRISH   BOY. 

His  name  I  love  to  mention,  in  Ireland  he  was  born, 
I  loved  him  very  dearly,  but  alas!  from  me  he's  gone; 
He's  gone  to   America,   he  promised  to  send  for  me, 
But  the  face  of  my  bonny  Irish  boy  I  can  no  longer  see. 

It  was  in   Londonderry,  that  city  of  note  and  fame, 
Where  first  my  bonny  Irish  lad  a-courting  to  me  came, 
He  told  me  pleasant  stories,  and  said  his  bride  I'd  be, 
But  the  face  of  my  bonny  Irish  boy  I  can   no  longer  sea. 


98  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

I   engaged  my  passage  for  New   York,  and,   on   arriving  there, 

To  seek  and  find  my  Irish  boy  I  quickly  did  prepare; 

I  searched  New  York  and  Providence,  and  Boston,  all  in  vain, 

But  the  face  of  my  bonny  Irish  boy  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

I  went  to  Philadelphia,  and  from  there  to  Baltimore, 

I  searched  the  state  of  Maryland,  I  searched  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

I  prayed  that  I  might  find  him,  wherever  he  might  be, 

But  the  face  of  my  bonny  Irish  boy  I  could  no  longer  see. 

One  night  as  I  lay  in  my  bed,  I  dreamt  I  was  his  bride, 

And  sitting  on  the  Blue  Bell  Hill,  and  he  sat  by  my  side, 

A-gathering  primroses,   like  the  happy  days   of  yore, 

I  awoke  quite  broken  hearted  in  the  city  of  Baltimore.  » 

Early  then  next  morning  a  knock  came  to  my  door, 

I  heard  his  voice,  I  knew  it  was  the  lad  I  did  adore; 

I  hurried  up  to  let  him  in,  I  never  felt  such  joy 

As  when  I  fell  into  the  arms  of  my  darling  Irish  boy. 

Now  that  we  are  married,  he  never  shall  go  to  sea, 

He  knows  I  love  him  dearly,  and  I'm  sure  that  he  loves  me; 

My  first   sweet  son   is  called  for  him,   my  heart's  delight  and  joy, 

He's  the  picture  of  his  father,  he's  a  darling  Irish  boy. 

Farewell  to  Londonderry,   I  ne'er  shall  see  you  more. 

Ah,    many    a    pleasant    night    we    spent    around    the    sweet    Lone-^  Moor; 

Our  pockets   were   light,    our   hearts   were   good,    we   longed  to   be   free. 

And  talked  about  a  happy  home  and  the  land  of  liberty. 


COLLEEN  DHAS  MACHREE. 

The  shadows  fall,  and  low  the  sun  is  sinking:, 

His  last  rays  tinge  with  gold  the  waters  blue, 
And   of  you,    Kate,    alanna,    I  am   thinking, 

Tho'  waves  divide  us,  still- 1  know  you're  true; 
I'll  not  forget  we  parted,   love,   in   sadness, 

In  tears  I  left  you  at  your  cabin  door, 
But  now   your   letter  fills  my  heart   with   gladness, 

In  ecstacy  I  read  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
CHORUS.— Tho'  distant  far,  and  waves  between  us  divide, 

By  night  and  day  I'll  ever  think  of  thee; 
I   will  be  true,   whatever  may  betide, 

My   own    sweet   darling,    colleen   dhas    machree. 
Tho'  years  may  pass  before  I'll  be  returning 

To  clasp  you  to  my  breast,  love,  as  of  old, 
Yet  I  will  come  to  thee  with  hopes  high  burning, 

And  claim  my  treasure,  better  far  than  gold.       . 
And  when  my  bark  is  proudly  homeward  dashing, 

Oh,  let  your  eyes  my  brilliant  beacon  be; 
There  keep  the  love-light  brightly  flashing, 

My  own  sweet  darling,  colleen  dhas  machree. 


ERIN'S  GREEN  SHORE. 

One  evening,  so  late,   as  I  rambled 

On  the  banks  of  a  clear  purling  stream, 
I  sat  myself  down  on  a  bed  of  primroses, 

And  so  gently  fell  into  a  dream. 
I    dreamt   I   beheld   a   fair   female, 

Her  equal  I  ne'er  saw  before, 
As  she   sighed   for  the  wrongs  of  her  country, 

As   she   strayed   along   Erin's   green   shore. 

I  quickly  addressed  this  fair  female, 

"My  jewel,    come  tell   me  your  name, 
For  here   in   this   country,   I  know,   you're   a  stranger, 

Or  I   would   not   have   asked   you   the   same." 
She    resembled   the    Goddess    of   Liberty, 

And  of  Freedom  the  mantle  she  wore, 
As  she  sighed  for  the  wrongs  of  her  country, 

As  she  strayed  along  Erin's  green  shore. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  9» 

"I   know  you're  a  true  son  of  Granut, 

And  my  secrets  to  you  I'll  unfold; 
For  here  in  the  midst  of  all  dangers, 

Not  knowing  my  friends  from  my  fo««. 
I'm  the  daughter  of  Daniel  O'Connall, 

And  from  England  I   lately   came  o'er, 
I've  come  to  awaken  my  brethren 

That  slumber  on  Erin's  green  shore." 
Her  eyes  were  like  two  sparkling  diamonds 

Or  the  stars  of  a  cold  frosty  night; 
Her  cheeks  were  two  blooming  roses, 

And  her  teeth  of  the  ivory  so  white. 
She  resembled  the  Goddess  of  Freedom, 

And  green  was  the  mantle  she  wore, 
Bound   'round  with   the  shamrock  and  roses 

That  grew  along  Erin's  green  shore* 
In  transports  of  joy  I  awoke, 

And  found  I  had  been   in  a  dream; 
For  this  beautiful  damsel  had  fled  me, 

And    I    longed   to    slumber   again. 
May  the  heavens  above  be  her  guardian, 

For  I  know  I  shall  see  her  no  more; 
May  the  sunbeams  of  glory  shine  o'er  her, 

As  she  strays  along  Erin's   green  shore. 


NORINE    MAURINE. 

Ah,   Norine   Maurine,   I'm  out  in  the  gloaming, 

Down  where  the  nightingale's  singing  its  lay, 
Under  the  willows  I'm  waiting  thy   coming, 

Ere   yet  the  gray   twilight  has   shaded   the  day; 
The  sun  kissed  the  Occident  long  ere  I  started, 

And  sank  into  rest  'neath  the  amethyst  sea, 
You    remember   the    promise   you    made   when   we   parted, 

Norine  Maurine,   I'm  waiting  for  thee. 

CHORUS.— 

Norine  Maurine,   the  bright  sun  in  its  splendor 

Shall  fail  to   efface  heaven's  teardrops,   the  dew, 
And  the  mother  will   cease  her  first  born  to  remember 

Ere  I,  darling  Norine,  prove  faithless  to  thee. 

Now  don't  forget,  darling,   the  promise  you  made  me, 

Down   in  the  orchard  last  evening  so  late, 
While   over  our  heads  pansied  pin  firs   were  hanging, 

And  katydids  chirruping  down  by  the  gate; 
You  promised  to  meet  me  to-night  in  the  gloaming, 

And,  down  where  the  daisies  bespangle  the  sea, 
Norine,   Maurine,    mavourneen,    I'm   waiting   thy  coming, 

Here  in  the  twilight  I  am  waiting  for  thee. 


I'M   LEAVING    OLD    IRELAND. 

I'm  leaving  old  Ireland,  the  land  of  my  heart, 
Oh,  bless  me,  dear  mother!  before  I  depart; 
I  know  you  will  miss  me,  I  fear  you  will  grieve, 
When  darkly  between  us  the  wide  waters  heave. 
But  Heav'n  will  watch  o'er  you  and  kindly  befriend, 
And  still  your  poor  Kathleen,  from  danger  defend. 
I'm  leaving  old  Ireland,  the  land  of  my  heart, 
Oh,  bless  me,   dear  mother!  before  I  depart. 

When  far  among  strangers,  I  wander  alone, 

My  thoughts  will  be  straying,  to  days  that  ate  gone; 

Asleep  or  awaking,  I'll  think  of  you  still, 

And  our  turf-covered  cabin,  beside  the  green  hill, 

The  hour  will  be  joyous  and  welcome  to  me. 

When  after  long  absence,  my  dear  home  1  see. 

I'm  leaving  old  Ireland,  the  land  of  my  heart,  etc. 


1M  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

NO  IRISH  NEED  APPLY. 

In  th»  papers  have  you  read,  have  you   noticed  what  th»/   •»)*? 

No  Irish  people  need  apply  to  earn  their  daily  bread; 

But  I'll   plainly  show   to   you  what  our   Irishmen   can  do, 

In  honesty  I'll  show  you  what  they  really  ought  to  do. 

On  this  you  may  rely,   you  will  find  out  by-and-by 

That  the  sons  of  Erin's  sunny  isle  are  welcome  to  apply. 

On  the  plains  of  "Waterloo,   where  bullets  like  hailstones  flew, 

There  was  the  Duke  of  Wellington,   bad  luck  to  him  what  did  he  do? 

He  bate  poor   Bonaparte,   though  he  wore  an  Irish  heart, 

He  won  his  wreath  of  laurels,  though  the  Irish  won  their  part, 

Paugh-a-ballagh!   they  did  cry,   We  will  conquer  or  we'll  die! 

Proud   England,   mind   your   Irishmen,   you'll   need   them  by-and-by. 

Just  note  the  Irish  girl  as  she  is  skipping  to  the  well, 
With  blossoms  blooming  on  her  cheek,   like  roses  in   the  dell; 
She  is  so  bright  and  fair,  with  her  jet  black  eyes  and  hair, 
Show  me  your  English   lady  who   a  brighter  name  can  bear! 
Then  rise  them  as  you  should,   for  'tis  fit  we  all  do  good: 
Oh,  never  crush  an  Irishman,  but  raise  him  as  you  should. 


OH,   LEAVE   NOT  YOUR  KATHLEEN. 

Oh,   leave   not  your   Kathleen   to  cross  the  dark  sea, 

For  she  will  be  lonely,  she  cares  but  for  thee: 

The  scenes   that  were  bright   will   fade  from  her  view, 

Oh,  say  you'll  not  leave  me  for  scenes  that  are  new; 

Oh,  why  do  you  leave  the  land  of  your  birth, 

The  sweet   land   of   shamrock,    the  home  of  your  youth? 

'Tis    an    emerald    that    glistens    in    the    bright    sunlight's    gleam 

When  away  you'll  forget  her  and  your  darling,  Kathleen. 

Oh,  leave  not  your  Kathleen,   your   Colleen  Bawn, 

She'll  be  broken-hearted  when  from  her  you're  gone; 

Her  eyes  will  grow  dim,  the  smile  lose  its  beam. 

The  blush  on  her  fair  cheek  will  lose  its  soft  gleam 

Oh,  stay  by  her  side  and  pass  the  sweet  hours, 

Together  we'll  wander  in   Killarney's  green  bowers; 

Oh,  think  not  from  Erin  there's  a  far  brighter  scene, 

And  leave  not  her  shores  and  your  darling,   Kathleen. 

Oh,  have  you  forgotten  yoxir  own  Colleen  Bawn, 

And    the    days    when    we    strolled    on    the    beach   and    the   lawn? 

'Twas  then  you  first  told  me  of  love's  winning  powers, 

When  beside  the  still  stream  we  plucked  the  wild   flowers. 

And   now  you   would   leave  me  to  wander  afar, 

And  forget  your  Kathleen  and   Erin-go-bragh; 

No  kind  heart  will  cheer  her  if  now  we  must  sever, 

When  you  part  from  your  Kathleen  we're  parted  forever. 

RICH  AND  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS. 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 

And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore; 

But,  oh!  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 

Her  sparkling  gems  or  snow-white  wand. 

"Lady!   dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray 

So  lone  and  lovely  through   this  bleak  way? 

Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold?" 

"Sir  Knight!  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm, 

No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm; 

For  though  they   love  woman  and   golden  store, 

Sir  Knight!  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more." 

On  she  went,   and  her  maiden  smile 

In  safety  lighted  her  'round  the  green  isle; 

And  blest  forever  is  she  who  relied 

Upon  Erin's  honor  and   Erin's  pride. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  101 

THE  FENIAN'S   ESCAPE. 

New.   b«yo,   if  you  will   listen  to  the  story  I'll  relate, 

I'll  tsll  you  of  th«  noble  men  who  from  the  foe  escaped; 

Though   bound   with   Saxon  fetters  in   the  dark  Australian  jail, 

They  struck  a  blow  for  freedom,  and  for  Yankee  land  set  sail, 

On  the  17th  of  April  last  the  Stars  and  Stripes  did  fly 

On  board  the  bark  "Catalpa,"  waving  proudly  to  the  sky; 

She  showed  the  green  above  the  red,  as  she  did  calmly  lay 

Prepared  to  take  the  Fenian  boys  in  safety  o'er  the  sea. 

When   Breslin   and   brave   Desmond   brought  the  prisoners   to  the  shore 

They  gave  one  shout  for  freedom— soon  to  bless  them  evermore — 

And  manned  by  gallant  hearts,   they  pulled  toward  the  Yankee  flag, 

For  well  they  knew,  from  its  proud  folds  no  tyrant  could  them  drag. 

They  have  nearly  reached  in  safety  the  "Catalpa,"  taut  and  trim, 

When  fast  approaching  them  they  saw  a  vision  dark  and  dim; 

It  was  the  steamer   "Georgette,"  and  on  her  deck  there   stood 

One  hundred  hired  assassins,  to  shed  each  patriot's  blood. 

The  steamer  reached   the   bounding   bark  and  fired   across   her  bow, 

Then  in  loud  voice  commanded  that  the  vessel   should  heave  to; 

But  noble  Captain  Anthony,   in   thunder  tones  did   cry: 

You  dare  not  fire  a  shot  at  that  bright  flag  that  floats  on  high; 

My  ship  is  sailing  peacefully  beneath  that  flag  of  stars, 

It's  manned  by  Irish  hearts  of  oak,   and  manly  Yankee  tars; 

And  that  dear  emblem  at  the  fore,  so  plain  now  to  be  seen, 

'Tis  the  banner  I'll  protect,  old  Ireland's  flag  of  green. 

The  Britisher  he  sailed  away — from  the  Stars  and  Stripes  he  ran — 

He  knew  his  chance  was  slim  to  fight  the  boys  of  Uncle  Sam; 

So  Hogan,  Wilson,  Harrington,   with  Darragh  off  did  go, 

With  Hassett  and  bold  Cranston,  soon  to  whip  the  Saxon  foe. 

Here's  luck  to  that  noble  captain,  who  well  these  men  did  free, 

He  dared  the  English  man-of-war  to  fight  him  on  the  sea; 

And  here's  to  that  dear  emblem  which  in  triumph  shall  be  seen, 

The  flag  for  which  those  patriots  fought,   dear  Ireland's  flag  of  green. 

THY  HARP,  BELOVED  EEIN. 

Thy  harp,  beloved  Erin,  sounds  over  the  deep, 
Like  the  murmuring  sigh  of   an  infant  asleep — 
My  own  native  Ireland — my  dear  native  Ireland, 

Oh,   Erin-go-bragh. 

The  gales  that  blow  o'er  thee,  lovely  Ireland,  are  dear 
As  a  mother's  caress,  or  a  penitent's  tear, 
Oh,  the  heart  homes  of  Ireland — the  dear,  dear  homes  Ireland, 

Oh,  Erin-go-bragh. 

The  dove  ne'er  returned  whom  the  ark  saw  depart, 
For  he  built  an  abode  in  Hibernia's  heart, 
Olive   branch'd   Ireland,    olive  branch'd   Ireland, 

Oh,   Erin-go-bragh. 

THE  OLD  RACE. 

Hurra  for  the  brave  old  Irish  race 
That  fire  or  sword  could  not  efface, 
That  lives  and  thrives  and  grows  apaca 

However  its  foes  assail  it — 
That  point  by  point,   and  day  by  day 
Wins  back  its  rights,   and  works  its  way! 
And   bursts  its   bonds — Hurra!  Hurra! 

With   a  hundred   cheers   we'll  hail  it! 
What  did  those  foes  to  the  old  race  do? 
They   wreck'd   their   country   through  and   through, 
They  robb'd  and  stripp'd,  they  hacked  and  slew, 

They  hang'd  and  burn'd,   and  drown'd  them, 
But  vainly  spent  were  storm  and  shock 
On  that  deathless  seed,  that  living  rock— 
The  Isle  is   filled   with   the  brave  old  stock, 

And  they've  worth   and  wealth  around  them! 


102  HTLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

When  fire  and  sword  had  done  their  part*, 
Then  tried  those  foes  their  baser  art*. 
By  dark  degrees  to  change  the  hearU 

That  never  would  yield  or  falter; 
But  now,  as  in  the  days  of  old, 
The  Irish  heart  is  native  gold. 
Cast  in  the  glorious  heaven-made  m«uld, 

No  power  on  earth  can  alter! 
And  if  good  work  is  yet  undone, 
If  rights  remain  yet  to  be  won, 
As  sure  as  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

'Twill  be  the  same  proud  story, 
Till  ends  the  strife  in  Liberty, 
Till  stands  the  race  redeemed  and  free, 
And  all  the  Isle  from  sea  to  sea 

Is  one  bright  field  of  glory! 

EMMET'S  FAREWELL  TO   HIS  LOVE. 

Farewell,    love,   farewell,    love,    I   now   must  leave   you, 

The  pale  moon  is  shining  her  last  beam  on  me; 
In  truth,   I   do  declare  I  never  deceived  you, 

For  it's  next  to  my  heart  is  dear  Erin  and  thee. 
Draw  near  to  my  bosom,  my  first  and  fond  true  love, 

And  cherish  the  heart  that  beats  only  for  thee; 
And   let  my  cold  grave  with  green  laurels  be  strewn,  love, 

For  I'll  die  for  my  country,  dear  Erin,  and  thee. 
Oh,  never  again  in  the  moonlight  we'll  roam,  love, 

When  the  birds  are  at  rest  and  the  stars  they  do  shine; 
Oh,   never  again  shall  I  kiss  thy  sweet  lips,  love, 

Or     wander   by   streamlets    with   thy   hands    pressed  in    mine. 
Oh,   should  a  mother's  love  make  -all  others  forsake  me, 

Oh,  give  me  a  promise  before  that  I  die, 
That   you'll    come   to  my   grave   when   all   others   forsake  me, 

And  there  with  the  soft  winds  breathe  sigh  then  for  sigh. 
My  hour  is   approaching,   let  me  take  one  fond   look,   love, 

And    watch    thy    pure    beauty    till    my   soul    does    depart; 
Let  thy  ringlets  fall  on  my  face  and  brow,   love, 

Draw  near  till  I  press  thee  to  my  fond  and  true  heart. 
Farewell,  love,  farewell,  love,  the  words  are  now  spoken, 

The  pale  moon  is  shining  her  last  beams  on  me; 
Farewell,    love,    farewell,    love,    I   hear   the    death    token, 

Never  more  in  .this  world  your  Emmet  you'll  see. 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE. 

Let  us  lift  the  green  flag  high 

Underneath  this   foreign  sky, 
Unroll  the  verdant  volume  to  the  wind, 

As  we  hasten  to  the  fight 

Let   us  drink  a  last  good  night 

To    the    beauty   which    we   leave,    boys,    behind,    behind,    behind; 
To  the  beauty  which  we  leave,  boys,  behind. 

Plant  it  high  upon  the  breach, 

And  within  the  flag-staff's  reach; 
We'll  offer  it  the  tribute  of  our  gore. 

Yes!  on  that  altar  high, 

'Spite   of  tyrants  we  can   die. 

And  our   spirits   to   the  saints  above  may   soar,   soar,   soar; 
And  our  spirits  to  the  saints  above  may  soar. 

Liberty  is  gone, 

Now   'tis   glory  leads  us   on, 
And  spangles   gloomy  slavery's   night; 

If  freedom's  shattered  barn 

Has  not  foundered  i'  the  dark, 

Her  wreck  must  see  this  beacon  bright,   bright,   bright; 
Her  wreck  will   see  this  beacon  bright. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  103 

Yes;  glory's  shining  light 

Must  irradiate  the   night, 
And  renew  the  flaming  splendor  of  the  day! 

And  freedom's  sinking  crew 

Shall  recover  hope  anew, 

And  hail  the  blazing  splendor  of  this  ray,  ray,  ray, 
And  hail  the  blazing  splendor  of  this  ray. 

The  green  flag  on  the  air, 

Sons  of  Erin  and  despair. 
To  the  breach  in  serried  column  quick  advance. 

On  the  summit  we  may  fall: 

Hand  in  hand,   my  comrades  all, 

Let  us  drink  a  last  adieu  to  merry  France,   France,  France; 
Let  us  drink  a  last  adieu  to  merry  France. 

To  Erin,  comrades,  too, 

And  her  sunny  skies  of  blue, 
A  goblet  commingled  with  tears! 

With  the  fleur-de-lis  divine, 

The  green  shamrock  shall  entwine; 
But  the  Ancient  see  the  Sun-burst  rears;  rears,   rears; 
The  Ancient  see  the  Sun-burst  rears. 


THE   SHAN   VAN  VOGH. 

Oh!  the  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
The   French   are   on   the   sea, 
Says  the   Shan  Van   Vogh; 
Oh!   the   French   are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  without  delay, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

Oh!  the  French  are  in  the  Bay, 
They'll  be  here  by  break  of  day 
And   the   Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
Where  will   they  have  their  camp? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh: 

On   the   Curragh  of  Kildare, 

The  boys  they  will  be  there, 

With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

To  the   Curragh   of   Kildare 
The  boys  they  will   repair, 
And   Lord   Edward   will   be   there, 
Says  the  Shan   Van  Vogh. 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
What  will  the  yeomen   do? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh: 
What  should  the  yeomen   do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they'll  be  true 

To  the  Shan  Van  Vogh? 

What  should,  &c. 
And  what  color  will  they  wear? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
What  color  will  they  wear? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
What  color  should  be  seen 
Where  our  fathers'   homes  have  been, 
But  their  own  immortal  Green? 

Says   the   Shan   Van   Vogh. 

What  color,  &c. 


104  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
Yes!  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea; 
Then  hurrah  for  Liberty! 

Says  the  Shan   Van  Vogh, 

Yes'   Ireland,   &e. 


THE   WEARING    OF    THE    GREEN. 

O,  Paddy  dear,  and  did  you  hear  the  news  that's  going  round? 
The  Shamrock  is  forbid  by  laws,  to  grow  on  Irish  ground; 
No  more   St.    Patrick's   day  we'll   keep,   his   color  last  be  seen, 
For  there's  a  bloody  law  agin  the  wearing  of  the  green. 
O,  I  met  with  Napper  Tandy,  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  says,  "How  is  Quid  Ireland,  and  how  does  she  stand?" 
"She's  the  most   distressed  country  that  ever  I  have  seen, 
For  they  are  hanging  men  and  women  for  the  wearing  of  green." 

And  since  the  color  we  must  wear,  is  England's  cruel  red, 

Quid    Ireland's   sons    will   ne'er   forget   the   blood   that   they   have   shed: 

Then   take   the  Shamrock   from  your   hat,   and  cast  it  on   the  sod, 

It  will   take  root,   and  flourish   still,   tho*   under   foot   'tis   trod. 

When  the  law  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growing  as  they  grow, 

And    when    the    leaves    in    summer-time    their    verdure    does    not   show, 

Then  I  will  change  the  color  I  wear  in  my  caubeen, 

But  till   that   day,   plaze  God,    I'll   stick   to   the   wearing   of  the  green. 

But  if  at  last  her  colors  should  be  torn  from  Ireland's  heart; 
Her  sons  with   shame  and  sorrow  from  the  dear  old  soil   will  part; 
I've  heard  whispers  of  a  country  that  lies  far  beyond  the  sea, 
Where  rich  and  poor  stand  equal  in  the  light  of  freedom's  day. 
O!   Erin,   must  we  leave   you,   driven   by  the   tyrant's  hand? 
Must  we  ask  a  mother's  blessing  in  a  strange  but  happy  land? 
Where  the  cruel  cross  of  England's  thraldom  is  never  to  be  seen, 
But  where,  thank  God,  we'll  live  and  die,  still  wearing  of  the  green. 

THE   DEATH   OF   SARSFIELD. 

Sarsfleld  has  sailed  from  Limerick  Town, 
He  held  it  long  for  country  and  crown; 
And  ere  he  yielded,  the  Saxon  swore 
To  spoil  our  homes  and  our  shrines  no  more. 

Sarsfleld  and  all  his  chivalry 

Are  fighting  for  France  in  the  Low  Countries— 

At  his  fiery  charge  the  Saxons  reel, 

They  learned  at  Limerick  to  dread  the  steel. 

Sarsfield  is  dying  on  Landen's  plain; 
His  corselet  hath  met  the  ball  in  vain — 
As  his  life-blood  gushes  into  his  hand, 
He  says,  "Oh!  that  this  was  for  fatherland!" 

Sarsfleld  is  dead,  yet  no  tears  shed  we — 
For  he  died  in  the  arms  of  Victory. 
And  his  dying  words  shall  edge  the  brand, 
When  we  chase  the  foe  from  our  native  land! 


THE  IRISH  HURRAH. 

Have  you  hearkened  the  eagle  scream  over  the  sea? 
Have  you  hearkened  the  breaker  beat  under  your  lee? 
A  something  between  the  wild  waves,  in  their  play, 
And  the  kingly  bird's  scream,  is  the  Irish  Hurrah. 

How  it  rings  on  the  rampart  when  Saxons  assail- 
How  it  leaps  on  the  level,  and  crosses  the  vale, 
Till  the  talk  of  the  cataract  faints  on  its  way, 
And  the  echo's  voice  cracks  with  the  Irish  Hurrah. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  105 

How  it  sweeps  o'er  the  mountain  when  hounds  are  on  scent, 

How  it  presses  the  billows  when  rigging  is  rent, 

Till  the  enemy's  broadside  sinks  low  in  dismay, 

As  our  boarders  go  in  with  the  Irish  Hurrah. 

Oh!  there's  hope  in  the  trumpet  and  glee  in  the  fife, 

But  never  such  music  broke  into  a  strife, 

As  when  at  its  bursting,  the  war-clouds  give  way, 

And  there's  cold  steel  along  with  the  Irish  Hurrah. 

What  joy  for  a  death-bed,  your  banner  above, 

And  round  you  the  pressure  of  patriot  love, 

As  you're  lifted  to  gaze  on  the  breaking  array 

Of  the  Saxon  reserve  at  the  Irish  Hurrah. 


THE  GREEN  LITTLE  SHAMROCK  OF  IRELAND. 

There's   a  dear   little   plant  that  grows  in   our  isle, 

'Twas   Saint  Patrick  himself,   sure,   that  set  It; 
And  the  sun  on  his  labor  with  pleasure  did  smile, 

And    with   dew   from   his   eye  often   wet   it. 

It   thrives  through   the  bog,    through  the  brake,   through  the  mireland: 
And  he  called  it  the  dear  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

The   sweet  little  Shamrock,   the  dear   little  Shamrock. 
The  sweet  little,  green  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  still  grows  in  our  land 

Fresh  and  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Erin, 
Whose  smiles  can  bewitch,   whose  eyes  can  command, 

In  each  climate  that  they  may  appear  in; 

And  shine  through  the   bog,   through   the  brake,  through  the  mireland; 
Just  like  their  own  dear  little  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 
The  sweet  little  Shamrock,  the  dear  little  Shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,  green   little   Shamrock   of  Ireland. 

This  dear  little  plant  that  springs  from  our  soil, 

When  its  three  little  leaves  are  extended, 
Denotes   from   one   stalk   we   together  should   toil, 

And  ourselves   by   ourselves   be  befriended; 

And   still   through   the  bog,    through   the   brake,   through   the  mireland, 
From  one  root  should  branch,  like  the  Shamrock  of  Ireland. 
The  sweet  little  Shamrock,   the  dear  little  Shamrock, 
The  sweet  little,   green   little   Shamrock   of  Ireland. 

OLD  IRELAND'S   LIBERTY. 

Rejoice!  rejoice!  Hibernia's  sons  rejoice! 

For  the  day  is  near  at  hand  when  the  French  are  going  to  land! 
Then  rejoice!  rejoice!  Hibernia's  sons  rejoice! 

For  soon  we  shall  see  the  day  of  liberty. 

Old  Ireland  shall  be  free,  and  to  that  we  all  agree, 
For  the  foeman  may  meet  us,  and  in  battle  not  defeat  us; 

But  still!  still!  we  look  for  liberty! 

For  we  are  as  brave  a  race  as  e'er  could  be. 

Then  prepare!  prepare!  Hibernia's  sons  prepare! 

For  the  time  it  soon  will  come,  get  ready  your  pike  and  gun, 
And  prepare!  prepare!  Hibernia's  sons  prepare! 

To  strike  a  gallant  blow  for  liberty. 

Let  the  dastard  that  is  willing  to  take  the  Saxon  shilling, 
Return  from  whence  he  came,  with  a  blot  upon  his  name, 

And  repent!  repent!  for  all  his  former  crimes, 

Until  the  sun  no  longer  on  him  shines. 

Now  forward!  forward!  on  to  the  fight  we  go! 

Mind  each  your  pike  or  gun,  and  we'll  show  the  Saxon  fun; 
Then  steady!  steady!  let  each  one  mark  his  man! 

And  soon  our  cry  will  be,  "Old  Ireland's  free!" 

For  God  is  on  our  side,  and  in  that  alone  we  pride; 
For  we  have  a  righteous  cause,  "Free  Ireland  and  Free  Laws!" 

Then  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza! 

We  will  thrash  the  enemies  of  Liberty! 


106  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

WHEEE  THE  GKASS  GKOWS  GKEEN. 

I'm  Denny  Blake  from  County  Clare, 

And  here,  at  your  command, 
To  sing  a  song  in  praise  of  home, 

And  my  own  native  land! 
I've  sailed  to  foreign  counteries, 
And  in  many  climes  I've  been, 
But  my  heart  is  still  with  Erin, 
Where  the  grass  grows  green. 
CHORU&— I  love  my  native  country, 

And  tho*  richer  lands  I've  seen 

Yet  I  can't  forget  Quid  Ireland, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

Poor  Pat  is  often  painted 

With  a  ragged  coat  and  -hat; 
His  heart  and  hospitality, 

Have  much  to  do  with  that. 
Let  slanderers  say  what  they  will, 

They  cannot  call  him  mean; 
Sure,  a  stranger's  always  welcome 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my,  etc. 

He's  foolish,  but  not  vicious, 

His  faults  I  won't  defend; 
His  purse  to  help  the  orphan, 

His  life  to  serve  a  friend, 
He'll  give,  without  a  murmur — 

So,  his  follies  try  and  screen; 
For,  there's  noble  hearts  in  Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my,  etc. 

'Tis  true  he  has  a  weakness 

For  a  drop  of  something  pure, 
But  that's  a  slight  debility 

That  many  more  endure. 
He's  fond  of  fun,  he's  witty, 

Though  his  wit  'tis  not  too  keen; 
For  there's  feeling  hearts  in  Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my,  etc. 

There's  not  a  true-born  Irishman, 

Wherever  he  may  be, 
But  loves  the  little  Emerald 

That  sparkles  in  the  sea. 
May  the  sun  of  bright  prosperity 

Shine  peaceful  and  serene, 
And  bring  better  days  to  Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green! 

For  I  love  my,  etc. 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

'Twas  a  glorious  day,  worth  a  warrior's  telling: 

Two  kings  had  fought,  and  the  flght  was  done, 
When,  amidst  the  shouts  of  victory  swelling, 

A  soldier  fell  on  the  field  he'd  won. 
He  thought  of  kings  and  royal  quarrels, 

And  thought  of  glory  without  a  smile — 
For  what  had  he  to  do  with  laurels, 

He  was  only  one  of  the  rank  and  file. 
But  drawing  his  little  cruiskeen. 
He  drank  to  his  pretty  colleen. 

"Oh!  darling,"  said  he,  "if  I  die, 

You  won't  be  a  widow,  for  why? 
Sure  you  would  never  have  me,  vourneen." 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  10? 

Then  a  raven  tress  from  his  bosom  taking, 

That  now  was  stained  with  his  life  stream  shed, 
A  fervent  prayer  on  that  ringlet  making, 

He  blessings  sought  on  the  loved  one's  head. 
And  visions  fair  of  his  native  mountains 

Arose,  enchanting  his  fading  sight; 
Her  emerald  valleys  and  crystal  fountains 

Were  never  shining  more  clear  and  bright. 
But  grasping  his  little  cruiskeen, 
He  pledged  that  dear  island  so  green: 

"Though  far  from  thy  valleys  I  die, 

Dearest  isle  of  my  heart,  thou  art  nigh, 
As  though  absent  I  never  had  been." 

A  tear  now  fell,  for  as  life  was  sinking. 

The  pride  that  guarded  his  manly  eye 
Had  weaker  grown,  and  such  tender  thinking 

Brought  heaven  and  home,  his  true  love,  nigh; 
But,  with  the  fire  of  his  gallant  nation, 

He  scorned  surrender  without  a  blow; 
He  met  death  with  capitulation, 

And  with  warlike  honors  he  would  go. 
But  drawing  his  little  cruiskeen 
He  drank  to  his  cruel  colleen, 

To  the  emerald  land  of  his  birth, 

Then  lifeless  he  sunk  to  the  earth, 
Brave  a  soldier  as  ever  was  seen. 


KATE  KEARNEY. 

Oh!  did  you  ne'er  hear  of  Kate  Kearney? 
She  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney; 
From  the  glance  of  her  eye,  shun  danger  and  fly, 
For  fatal's  the  glance  of  Kate  Kearney. 

For  that  eye  Is  so  modestly  beaming, 
You'd  ne'er  think  of  mischief  she's  dreaming; 
Yet,  oh!  I  can  tell,  how  fatal's  the  spell 
That  lurks  in  the  eye  of  Kate  Kearney. 

O,  should  you  e'er  meet  this  Kate  Kearney, 
Who  lives  on  the  banks  of  Killarney, 
Beware  of  her  smile,  for  many  a  wile 
Lies  hid  in  the  smile  of  Kate  Kearney. 

Though  she  looks  so  bewitchingly  simple, 
Yet  there's  mischief  in  every  dimple, 
And  who  dares  inhale  her  sigh's  spicy  gale, 
Must  die  by  the  breath  of  Kate  Kearney. 

WIDOW    MALONE. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone 

Ohone 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone? 

Ohone! 

Oh,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohon«! 
to  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 

Or  mor«, 
And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 

In  store: 

From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  crown, 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 


108  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

"Twas  known, 
No  one  could  se«  her  alone, 

Ohone! 

Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone! 

So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 
Till  one  Mister  O'Brien,  from  Clare- 
How  queer! — 
It's  little  for  blushing  they  care 

Down  there, 

Put  his  arm  round  her  waist — 
Gave  ten  kisses  at  least — 
"Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own. 

Oh,"  says  he,  "you're  my  Molly  Malone." 
And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh, 

For  why? 

"But  Lucius,"  says  she, 
"Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone! 

You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 
There's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song. 

Not  wrong, 
And  one  comfort,  it's  not  very  long, 

But  strong — 
If  for  widows  you  die, 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  sigh, 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone! 
For  they're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 

Widow  Machree.  'tis  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree, 
Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty  black  gown, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
How  altered  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear, 
'Tis  destroying  your  hair 

That  should  be  flowing  free; 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
Widow  Machree!  now  the  summer  is  come, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty  look  glum, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree, 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares, 
Why  even  the  bears 

In  couples  agree, 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  -wish, 
Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
Widow  Machree.  and  when  winter  comes  In, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree, 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree, 
Why,  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  109 

And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit  you  sup, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts  I've  towld, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
But  you're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in  the  cowld, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
With  such  sins  on  your  head, 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled — 
Could  you  sleep  on  your  bed, 

Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,  och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Machree, 

Och  hcne!    Widow  Machree, 
And  with  my  advice,  faith,  I  wish  you'd  take  me, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 
You'd  have  me  to  desire, 
And  to  stir  up  the  fire, 
And,  sure,  hope  is  no  liar, 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you'd  be  near  my  heart, 

Och  hone!    Widow  Machree. 


TIPPERARY  RECRUITING   SONG. 

'Tis  now  we'd  want  to  be  wary,  boys, 

The  recruiters  are  out  in  Tipperary,  boys; 

If  they  offer  a  glass,  we'll  wink  as  we  pass — 

We're  ould  birds  for  chaff  in  Tipperary,  boys. 

Then  hurrah  for  the  gallant  Tipperary,  boys, 

Although  we're  "cross  and  contrairy,"  boys, 

The  never  a  one  will  handle  a  gun, 

Except  for  the  Green  and  Tipperary  boys. 

Now  mind  what  John  Bull  did  here,  my  boys, 

In  the  days  of  our  famine  and  fear,  my  boys: 

He  burned  and  sacked,  he  plundered  and  racked, 

Ould  Ireland  of  Irish  to  clear,  my  boys. 

Now  Bull  wants  to  pillage  and  rob,  my  boys, 

And  put  the  proceeds  in  his  fob,  my  boys; 

But  let  each  Irish  blade  just  stick  to  his  trade, 

And  let  Bull  do  his  own  dirty  job,  my  boys. 

So  never  to  'list  be  in  haste,  my  boys, 

Or  a  glass  of  drugged  whiskey  to  taste,  my  boys; 

If  to  India  you'll  go,  'tis  to  grief  and  to  woe, 

And  to  rot  and  die  like  a  beast,  my  boys. 

But  now  he  is  beat  for  men,  my  boys, 

His  army  is  getting  so  thin,  my  boys, 

With  the  fever  and  ague,  the  sword  and  the  plague, 

Oh!  the  devil  a  fear  that  he'll  win,  my  boys. 

Then  mind  not  the  robbing  ould  schemer,  boys, 

Though  he  says  that  he's  richer  than  Darner,  boys, 

Though  he  bully  and  roar,  his  power  is  o'er, 

And  his  black  heart  will  shortly  be  tamer,  boys. 

Now  isn't  Bull  peaceful  and  civil,  boys, 

In  his  mortal  distress  and  his  evil,  boys? 

But  we'll  cock  each  caubeen  when  his  Serjeants  ar«  BMI, 

And  we'll  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil,  boys. 

Then  hurrah  for  the  gallant  Tipperary,  boys! 

Altho'  we're  cross  and  contrairy,  boys, 

The  never  a  one  will  handle  a  gun, 

Except  for  the  Green  and  Tipperary,  boyi. 


110  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  ROSE  OF  ERIN. 

I  saw  her  first  In  golden  hours, 
With  primrose  stars  appearin', 

0  green  was  she  of  all  the  flow'rs, 
The  lovely  Rose  of  Erin! 

Beneath  the  shade  of  Irish  hills, 
Their  Isle's  own  colors  wearin', 

Ah,  where  smiled  the  shamrock  all  the  day 
There  dwelt  the  Rose  of  Erin, 
Dwelt  the  Rose  of  Erin. 

1  saw  her  next  in  summer  time, 
With  ev'ry  charm  endearin', 

For  she  was  in  her  girlhood's  fame, 

The  lovely  Rose  of  Erin; 
We  met  beside  the  banks  of  Erin 

No  thought  of  sorrow  fearin', 
Ah,  yet  oft  I  thought  her  lily-pale, 

My  darlin'  Rose  of  Erin, 
Darlin'  Rose  of  Erin. 

Alas!  alas!  on  autumn's  wave, 

To  heav'n  her  bark  was  steerin', 
And  I,  no  pray'r  of  mine  might  save 

My  lovely  Rose  of  Erin. 
Ah!  well-a-day,  the  angels  came, 

My  heart's  own  garden  nearin', 
Ah!  and  took  from  earth,  to  bloom  In  heav'n 

My  lovely  Rose  of  Erin, 
Lovely  Rose  of  Erin. 

A  SOLDIER'S  TEAR. 


Upon  the  hill  he  turn'd,  to  take  a  last  fond  look 

At  the  valley,  and  the  village  church,  and  the  cottage  by  the  brook; 

He  listen'd  to  the  sounds  so  familiar  to  his  ear, 

And  the  soldier  lean'd  upon  his  sword,  and  wiped  away  a  tear. 

Beside  that  cottage  porch  a  girl  was  on  her  knees, 
She  held  aloft  a  snowy  scarf,  which  flutter'd  in  the  breeze: 
She  breathed  a  prayer  for  him,  a  prayer  he  could  not  hear; 
But  he  paused  to  bless  her  as  she  knelt,  and  wiped  away  a  tear. 

He  turn'd  and  left  the  spot — oh!  do  not  deem  him  weak. 

For  dauntless  was  the  soldier's  heart,  though  tears  were  on  his  cheek. 

Go  watch  the  foremost  ranks  in  danger's  dark  career — 

Be  sure  the  hand  most  daring  there  has  wiped  away  a  tear. 

MO    CAILIN  DONN. 

The  blush  is  on  the  flower,  and  the  bloom  is  on  the  tree, 
And  the  bonnie,  bonnie  sweet  birds  are  carolling  their  glee; 
And  the  dews  upon  the  grass  are  made  diamonds  by  the  sun, 
All  to  deck  a  path  of  glory  for  my  own  Cailin  Donn! 
O,  fair  she  is!  O,  rare  she  is!  O,  dearer  still  to  me! 
More  welcome  than  the  green  leaf  to  winter-stricken  tree, 
More  welcome  than  the  blossom  to  the  weary,  dusty  bee, 
Is  the  coming  of  my  true  love — my  own  Cailin  Donn! 
O,  Sycamore!  O,  Sycamore!  wave,  wave  your  banners  green — 
Let  all  your  pennons  flutter,  O,  Beech!  before  my  queen! 
Ye  fleet  and  honeyed  breezes,  to  kiss  her  hand  ye  run, 
But  my  heart  has  passed  before  ye  to  my  own  Cailin  Donn! 

O,  fair  she  is;  &c. 

Ring  out,  ring  out,  O,  Linden!  your  merry,  leafy  bells! 
Unveil  your  brilliant  torches,  O,  Chestnut!  to  the  dells: 
Strew,  strew  the  glade  with  splendor,  for  morn— it  cometh  on! 
O,  the  morn  of  all  delight  to  me— my  own  Cailin  Donn! 

O,  fair  she  is;  &c. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  11! 

She  is  coming,  where  we  parted,  where  she  wanders  every  day; 

There's  a  gay  surprise  before  her  who  thinks  me  far  away! 

O,  like  hearing  bugles  triumph  when  the  fight  of  Freedom's  won, 

Is  the  joy  around  your  footsteps — my  own  Cailin  Donn! 
O  fair  she  is!  O,  rare  she  is!  O,  dearer  still  to  me! 
More  welcome  than  the  green  leaf  to  winter-stricken  tree, 
More  welcome  than  the  blossom  to  the  weary  dusty  bee, 
Is  your  coming,  O,  my  true  love — my  own  Cailin  Donn! 


PAT  MALLOY. 

At  sixteen  years  of  age  I  was  my  mother's  fair  haired  boy; 

She  kept  a  little  huckster  shop,  her  name  it  was  Malloy. 

"  I've  fourteen  children,  Pat,"  says  she,  "which  Heav'n  to  me  has  sent; 

But  childer  ain't  like  pigs,  you  know;  they  can't  pay  the  rent." 

She  gave  me  ev'ry  shilling  there  was  in  the  till, 

And  kiss'd  me  fifty  times  or  more,  as  if  she'd  never  get  her  fill, 

"Oh!    Heav'n  bless  you!  Pat,"  says  she,  "and  don't  forget,  my  boy, 

That  Ould  Ireland  is  your  country,  and  your  name  is  Pat  Malloy!" 

Oh!  England  is  a  purty  place:  of  goold  there  is  no  lack— 

I  trudged  from  York  to  London  wid  me  scythe  upon  me  back, 

The  English  girls  are  beautiful,  their  loves  I  don't  decline; 

The  eating  and  the  drinking,  too,  is  beautiful  and  fine; 

But  in  a  corner  of  me  heart,  which  nobody  can  see, 

Two  eyes  of  Irish  blue  are  always  peeping  out  at  me! 

O'  Molly  darlin',  never  fear:  I'm  still  your  own  dear  boy — 

Ould  Ireland  is  me  country,  and  me  name  is  Pat  Malloy! 

From  Ireland  to  America,  across  the  seas,  I  roam: 

And  every  shilling  that  I  got,  ah!  sure  I  sent  it  home. 

Me  mother  couldn't  write,  but,  oh,  there  came  from  Father  Boyce: 

"Oh!  Heav'n  bless  you!  Pat,"  says  she — I  hear  me  mother's  voice! 

But,  now  I'm  going  home  again,  as  poor  as  I  began, 

To  make  a  happy  girl  of  Moll,  and  sure  I  think  I  can: 

Me  pockets  they  are  empty,  but  me  heart  is  fill'd  wid  joy: 

For,  Ould  Ireland  is  me  country,  and  me  name  is  Pat  Malloy. 

SONG  OF  THE  VOLUNTEERS  OF  1782. 

Hurrah!  'tis  done — our  freedom's  won — 

Hurrah  for  the  volunteers! 
No  laws  we  own,  but  those  alone 

Of  our  Commons.  Kings,  and  Peers 
The  chain  is  broke — the  Saxon  yoke 

From  off  our  neck  is  taken; 
Ireland  awoke — Dungannon  spoke — 

With  fear  was  England  shaken 

When  Grattan  rose  none  dared  oppose 

The  claim  he  made  for  freedom: 
They  knew  our  swords,  to  back  his  words 

Were  ready,  did  he  need  them. 
Then  let  us  raise,  to  Grattan's  praise 

A  proud  and  joyous  anthem; 
And  wealth,  and  grace,  and  length  of  days 

May  God,  in  mercy  grant  him! 

Bless  Harry  Flood  who  nobly  stood 

By  us,  through  gloomy  years! 
Bless  Charlemont,  the  brave  and  good, 

The  Chief  of  the  Volunteers! 
The  North  began,  the  North  held  on 

The  strife  for  native  land; 
Till  Ireland  rose  and  cowed  her  foes — 

God  bless  the  Northern  land! 

And  bless  the  men  of  patriot  pen — 

Swift,   Molyneux,  and  Lucas; 
Bless  sword  and  gun,  which  "Free  Trade"  won; 

Bless  God!  who  ne'er  forsook  us!  ' 


112  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

And  long  may  last  the  friendship  fast, 

Which  binds  us  all  together; 
While  we  agree  our  foes  shall  flee 

Like  clouds  in  stormy  weather. 

Remember  still,  through  good  and  ill, 

How  vain  were  prayers  and  tears- 
How  vain  were  words,  till  flashed  the  swords 

Of  the  Irish  Volunteers. 
By  arms  we've  got  the  right  we  sought, 

Through  long  and  wretched   years — 
Hurrah!  'tis  done,  our  freedom's  won — 

Hurrah  for  the  Volunteers! 


PADDY'S  ISLAND  OF  GREEN. 

Ah,  pooh,  botheration,  dear  Ireland's  the  nation 

Which  all  other  nations  together  excels; 
Where  worth,  hospitality,  conviviality, 

Friendship,  and  open  sincerity  dwells. 
Sure  I've  roamed  the  world  over,  from  Dublin  to  Dover, 

But,  in  all  the  strange  countries  wherever  I've  been, 
I  ne'er  saw  an  island,  on  sea  or  on  dry  land, 

Like  Paddy's  own  sweet  little  island  of  green. 

In  England,  your  roses  make  beautiful  posies; 

Provoke  Scotia's  thistle,  you'll  meet  your  reward; 
But  sure,  for  its  beauty,  an  Irishman's  duty 

Will   teach  him   his   own   native   plant   to   regard: 
Saint  Patrick  first  set  it,  with  tear-drops  he  wet  it, 

And  often  to  cherish  and  bless  it  was  seen; 
Its  virtues  are  rare,  too — it's  fresh  and  it's  fair,  too — 

And  flowers  but  in  Paddy's  own  island  of  green. 

Oh,  long  life  to  old  Ireland,  its  bogs  and  its  moorland, 

For  there's  not  such  a  universe  under  the  sun 
For  honor,  for  spirit,  fidelity,  merit, 

For  wit  and  good  fellowship,  frolic  and  fun! 
With  wine  and  with  whiskey,  when  once  it  gets  frisky 

An  Irishman's  heart  in  true  colors  is  seen, 
With  mirth  overflowing,  with  love  it  is  glowing — 

With  love  for  its  own  native  island  of  green. 

PADDY'S  LAND. 

Come,  all  ye  boys  of  Paddy's  land,  who  are  inclined  to  roam, 
To  reap  the  English  harvest  so  far  away  from  home, 
Be  sure  you're  well  provided  with  comrades  bold  and  true, 
For  you  have  to  fight  both  day  and  night  'gainst  John  Bull  and  his  crew. 
CHORUS. — Then  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  Paddy's  land, 

'Tis  the  land  I  do  adore, 
May  heaven  smile  on  every  child 
That  loves  that  shamrock  shore. 

When  we  left  home  for  Dublin,  the  morning  it  being  clear, 
And  when  we  got  on  board  the  boat,  we  gave  three  hearty  cheers, 
Saying:    Good-bye,  my  boys,  to  that  dear  old  land,  we  ne'er  may  see  it  more, 
For  we're  going  to  fight,  both  day  and  night,  all  for  that  shamrock  shore. 

Then  hurrah,  my  boys,  &c. 

We  sailed  away  from  Dublin  Quay,  and  ne'er  received  a  shock, 
Until  we  landed  in  New  York  'longside  of  the  dock, 
Where  thousands  of  our  countrymen  they  were  all  in  that  town, 
And  "Faugh  a  ballagh!"  (clear  the  track)  were  the  words  that  passed  all 
round. 

Then  hurrah,  my  boys,  &c. 

Then  away  we  went,  in  merriment,  to  drink  bourbon  and  wine, 
Each  lad  he  gave  his  favorite  toast  for  the  girl  he  left  behind; 
We  sat  and  sang,  made  the  ale-house  ring,  despising  Erin's  foes, 
Or  any  man  that  hates  the  land  where  St.  Patrick's  shamrock  grows. 

Then  hurrah,  my  boys,  fee. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  113 

SOGGARTH  AROON. 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth   aroon? 
Since  you  did  show  the  war, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  «• 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will 
Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth   aroon? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, — 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you — 
Och!  out  of  fear  to  you! 

Soggarth  aroon! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cowld  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon. 
Came  to  my  cabin-door, 
And,  on  my  earthen  flure 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Who  on  the  marriage-day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon — 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon? 

Who,   as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon? 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon? 


COOLUN. 

Oh!  the  hours  I  have  pass'd  in  the  arms  of  my  dear, 

Can  never  be  thought  on  but  with  a  sad  tear, 

Oh!  forbear,  Oh!  forbear,  then,  to  mention  her  name, 

It  recalls  to  my  mem'ry  the  cause  of  my  pain. 

How  often  to  love  me  she  fondly  has  sworn, 

And  when  parted  from  me  would  ne'er  cease  to  mourn; 

All  hardships  for  me  she  would  cheerfully  bear, 

And  at  night  on  my  bosom  forget  all  her  care. 

To  some  distant  climate  together  we'll  roam. 

And  forget  all  the  hardships  we  meet  with  at  home; 

Fate  now  be  propitious  and  grant  me  thine  aid: 

Give  me  my  Pastora  and  I'm  more  than  repaid. 


114  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MAIRE    BHAN    ASTOR. 

In  a  valley  far  away, 

With  my  Maire  bhan  astfir, 
Short  would  be  the  summer  day, 

Ever   loving  more   and  more; 
Winter   days   would  all   grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour, 
With   her  kisses  and  her  song, 
And  her  loving  mait  go  leor. 
Fond  is  Maire  bhan  ast6r, 
Fair  is  Maire   bhan  ast6r, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore, 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  astdr. 
O!  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And   her   mother   cold   as   stone; 
But   her   brother  bravely  vow'd 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone; 
For  he  knew  I  lov'd  her  well, 

And  he   knew  she   lov'd  me  too, 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  'twas  all   in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is   Maire  bhan   astfir, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  astor, 
Had  I  wings  I'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  ast6r. 
There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop   it  sows, 
Glorious  woods   and   teeming  soil, 

Where   the   broad   Missouri   flows; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise, 
From   our  hearth  with  mait  go   leor, 
There   shall    shine   the   happy   eyes 
Of   my   Maire  bhan   astor. 
Mild   is   Maire  bhan  astflr, 
Mine  is   Maire   bhan  astor, 
1  Saints  will   watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  astor. 


THE  IRISH  JIG. 

Oh,  my  blessing  be  on  you,  old  Ireland, 

My  own  land  of  frolic  and  fun! 
For  all  sorts  of  mirth  and  diversion, 
Your  like  isn't  under  the  sun. 
Bohemia  may  boast  of  it's  polka, 

And  Spain  of  its  waltzes  talk  big; 
Oh,  they  are  all  nothing  but  limping, 

Compared  with  our  own  Irish  jig. 

CHORUS. — Then  a  fig  for  your  new-fashioned  waltzes, 

Imported  from  Spain  and  from  France; 
And  a  fig  for  the  thing  called  the  polka — 
Our  own  Irish  jig  is  the  dance! 

They  tell  how  this  jig  came  in  fashion — 

And  I  believe  that  the  story  is  true — 
'Twas  Adam  and  Eve  that  first  danced  it: 

The  reason  was,  partners  were  few. 
And   although   they  could   both   dance  the  polka, 

Eve  thought  it  was  not  over-chaste; 
So  she  preferred  the  jig  to  the  dancing — 

And,  'faith,  I  approve  of  her  taste. 

Then  a  fig,  &c. 

The  light-hearted  daughters  of  Erin, 
Like  wild  deer  on  the  mountain  that  bound 

Their  feet  never  touch  the  green  island, 
But  music  is  struck  from  the  ground. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  115 

And  oft  on  their  hills  and  green  valleys 

They  dance  with  such  light  and  such  grae«, 
That  even  the  daisies  they  tread  on, 

Look  up  with  delight  in  their  face. 

Then  a  fie,  &e. 
They  tell  how  this  jig  it  was  danced  by 

The  kings  and  the  great  men  of  yore; 
King  O'Toole  himself  could  well  foot  it, 

To  a  tune  they  called  Rory  O'More. 
And  oft  in  the  great  halls  of  Tara, 

Our  famous  King  Brien  Boru, 
He  danced  this  old  jig  with  his  nobles. 

And  played  on  his  harp  to  it,  too. 

Then  a  fig,  £c. 
And,  sure,  when  Herodias's  daughter 

Was  dancing  in  King  Herod's  sight, 
His  heart,  that  for  years  had  been  frozen, 

Was  melted  with  joy  and  delight. 
And  oft,  and  a  hundred  times  over, 

I  heard  Father  Flanagan  tell, 
'Twas  this  very  same  jig  that  she  footed, 

That  pleased  the  ould  villain  so  well. 

Then  a  fig,  &e. 

THE  EXILE  OF  ERIN. 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  hoary  and  chill; 
For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  repairing, 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 
But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  on  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 
Where  once,   in  the  flow  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Ertn-go-bragh. 

"O  sad  is  my  fate,"   said  the  heart-broken  stranger, 

"The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee; 
But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 

A  home  and  country  remain  not  for  me! 
Ah!  never  again  in  the  green  shady  bowers, 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours 
Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 

And  strike  the  sweet  numbers  of  Erin-go-bragh. 

"O  Erin,  my  country,  though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore; 
But  alas!  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  that  can  meet  me  no  more; 
And  thou,  cruel  fate,  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 

In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase  mo? 
Ah,  never  again  shall  my  brothprs  embrace  me! 

They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore. 

"Where  now  is  my  cabin-door,  fast  by  the  wildwood? 

Sister  and  sire  did   weep   for   its  fall; 
Where  is  the  mother,  that  looked  on  my  childhood? 

And  where  is  my  bosom-friend,   dearer  than  all? 
Ah,  my  sad  soul,  long  abandoned  by  pleasure, 

Why  did  it  dote  on  a  fast-fading  treasure? 
Tears,  like  the  raindrops,  may  fall  without  measure, 

But  rapture  and  beauty  they  cannot  recall. 

"But  yet  all  its  fond  recollections  suppressing, 

One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  shall  draw; 
Erin,  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing, 

Land  of  my  forefathers,   Erin-go-bragh. 
Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  its  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,    sweetest  isle  in  the  ocean, 
And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud  with  devotion, 

Erin,    mavourneen,    sweet    Erin-go-bragh." 


11«  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  IRISH  GIRL. 

One  evening,  as  I  stray'd  down  the  river's  side, 

Looking  all  around  me  as  an  Irish  girl  I  spied, 

So  red  and  rosy  were  her  cheeks,  and  yellow  was  her  hair, 

And  costly  were  the  robes  which  my  Irish  girl  did  wear. 

Her  shoes  of  Spanish  leather  were  bound  round  with  spangles  gay, 

The  tears  came  down  her  crystal  eyes,   and  she  began  to  say, 

"Och  hone,  and  alas;  astore  areen  machree, 

Why  should  you  go  and  leave  me,  and  slight  your  own  Molly?" 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  my  love,  I  was  sick  and  very  bad, 

All  the  request  I  asked  was  that  she  might  tie  my  head! 

I  asked  her  if  one  as  bad  as  me  could  ever  mend  again! 

For  love's  a  sore  disorder — did  you  ever  feel  the  pain? 

My  love,  she'll  not  come  nigh  me  for  all  the  moan  I  make, 

Nor  neither  will  she  pity  me  if  my  poor  heart  should  break, 

But  was  I  of  some  noble  blood  and  she  of  low  degree, 

She  would  hear  my  lamentation,  and  come  and  pity  me. 

My  only  love  is  fairer  than  the  lilies  that  do  grow, 

She   has  a  voice   that's  clearer   than  any   winds  that  blow; 

She's  the  promise  of  this  country,  like  Venus  in  the  air, 

And  let  her  go  where'er  she  will,  she's  my  joy  and  only  dear. 

Be  it  so,  or  be  it  not,  of  her  I  take  my  chance, 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  my  love,  she  struck  me  in  a  trance, 

Her  ruby  lips  and  sparkling  eyes  have  so  bewitched  me, 

That,  were  I  King  of  Ireland,  Queen  of  it  she  should  be. 


WHEN  HE  WHO   ADORES  THEE. 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh,  say,  wilt  thou  weep,, when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resigned? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree; 
For  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine; 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above, 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 
Oh,  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days   of   thy  glory   to  see; 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  giv« 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee! 

WE   MAY  ROAM  THROUGH   THIS   WORLD. 

We  may  roam  through  this  world,  like  a  child  at  a  feast, 

Who  but  sips  of  a.  sweet,  and  then  flies  to  the  rest; 
And,  when  pleasure  begins  to  grow  dull  in  the  east, 

We  may  order  our  wings,  and  be  off  to  the  west; 
But  if  hearts  that  feel,  and  eyes  that  smile, 

Are  the  dearest  gifts  that  Heaven  supplies, 
We  never  need  leave  our  own  green  isle, 

For  sensitive  hearts  and  for  sun-bright  eyes. 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crowned, 

Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam, 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh,  remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home! 

In  England,  the  garden  of  Beauty  is  kept 

By  a  dragon  of  prudery,  placed  within  call; 
But  so  oft  this  unamiable  dragon  has  slept, 

That  the  garden's  but  carelessly  watched  after  all. 
Oh!  they  want  the  wild   sweet-briery   fence 

Which   round   the   flowers   of   Erin   dwells; 
Which  warns  the  touch,  while  winning  the  sense, 

Nor  charms  us  least  when  it  most  repels. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  11T 

Then  remember,  wherever  your  goblet  is  crowned, 
Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam, 

When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 
Oh,  remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  homt! 

In  France,  when  the  heart  of  a  woman  sets  sail 

On  the  ocean  of  wedlock  its  fortune  to  try. 
Love  seldom  goes  far  in  a  vessel  so  frail, 

But  just  pilots  her  off,  and  then  bids  her  good-bye; 
While  the  daughters  of  Erin  keep  the  boy 

Ever  smiling  beside  his  faithful  oar, 
Through  billows  of  woe  and  beams  of  joy, 

The  same  as  he  looked  when  he  left  the  shore. 
Then   remember,   wherever   your  goblet  is  crowned, 

Through  this  world,  whether  eastward  or  westward  you  roam. 
When  a  cup  to  the  smile  of  dear  woman  goes  round, 

Oh,  remember  the  smile  that  adorns  her  at  home! 


THE  GIRL  I'VE  LEFT  BEHIND  ME. 

I'm  lonesome  since  I  cross'd  the  hill, 

And  o'er  the  moor  and  valley; 
Such  heavy  thoughts  my  heart  do  fill, 

Since  parting  with  my  Sally. 
I  seek  no  more  the  fine  and  gay, 

For  each  does  but  remind  me 
How  swift  the  hours  did  pass  away 

With  the  girl  I   left  behind   me. 
Oh!  ne'er  shall  I  forget  the  night, 

The  stars  were  bright  above  me, 
AJd  gently  lent  their  silv'ry  light, 

When  first  she  vow'd  to  love  me. 
But   now    I'm   bound   to    Brighton   camp, 

Kind  Heaven,   then   pray  guide  me, 
And  send  me  safely  back  again 

To  the  girl  I've  left  behind  me. 
Had  I  the  heart  to  sing  her  praise 

With  all   the  skill  of  Homer, 
One  only  theme  should  fill  my  lays, 

The  charms  of  my  true  lover. 
So  let  the  night  be  e'er  so  dark, 

Or  e'er  so  wet  and  windy, 
Kind  Heaven  send  me  back  again 

To  the  girl  I've  left  behind  me. 
Her  golden  hair  in  ringlets  fair. 

Her  eyes   like  diamonds  shining, 
Her  slender  waist,  with  carriage  chaste, 

May  leave  the  swain  repining. 
Ye  gods  above!  oh,  hear  my  prayer. 

To  my  beauteous  fair  to  bind  me, 
And  send  me  safely  back  again 

To  the  girl  I've  left  behind  me. 
The  bee  shall   honey  taste  no  more, 

The  dove   become  a  ranger, 
The  falling  waves  shall  cease  to  roar, 

E'er  I  shall  seek  to  change  her. 
The  vows   we  register'd  above 

Shall   ever  cheer  and  bind  me 
In  constancy  to  her  I  love, 

The  girl  I've  left  behind  me. 
My  mind  her  form  shall  still  retain 

In  sleeping  or  in  waking. 
Until  I  see  my  love  again, 

For  whom  my  heart  is  breaking. 
If  ever  I  return  that  way. 

And  she  should  not  decline  me, 
I  evermore  will  live  and  stay 

With  the  girl  I've  left  behind  me. 


US  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  MAID  OF  ERIN. 

My  thoughts  delight  to  wander 

Upon   a   distant   shore; 
Where  lovely,   fair,    and   tender, 

Is  she   whom  I  adore. 
May  Heaven,  its  blessings  sparing 

On  her  bestow  them  free, 
The  lovely  maid  of  Erin, 

Who  sweetly  sang  to  me. 
Had  fortune  flx'd  my  station 

In  some  propitious  hour, 
The  monarch   of  a  nation 

Endow'd  with  wealth  and  power, 
That  wealth  and  power  sharing, 

My   peerless  queen  should  be 
The  lovely  maid  of   Erin, 

Who  sweetly  sang  to  me. 
Although  the  restless  ocean, 

May  long  between  us  roar, 
Yet,  while  my  heart  has  motion. 

She'll   lodge   within   its   core; 
For,  artless  and  endearing, 

And  mild  and  young  is  she, 
That  lovely  maid  of  Erin, 

That  sweetly  sang  to  me. 
When   fate  gives  intimation 

That  my  last  hour  is  nigh, 
With    placid    resignation 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die; 
Fond  hope  my  bosom  cheering, 

That  I  in  Heaven  shall  see 
The  lovely  maid  of  Erin, 

That  sweetly  sang  to  me. 


WILLIAM   REILLY'S   COURTSHIP. 

'Twas  on  a  pleasant  morning,  all  in  the  bloom  of  spring, 
When  as  the  cheerful  songsters  in  concert  sweet  did  sing, 
The  primrose  and  the  daisy  bespangled  every  lawn, 
In  an  arbor  I  espied  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

I  stood  awhile  amazed,  quite  struck  with  surprise, 
On  her  with  rapture  gazed,  while  from  her  bright  eyes 
She  shot  such  killing  glances,  my  heart  away  was  drawn, 
She  ravish'd  all  my  senses,  my  fair  Colleen  Bawn. 

I   tremblingly   addressed   her:    "Hall,   matchless   fair  maid, 
You  have  with  grief  oppress'd  me,  and  I  am  much  afraid, 
Except  you  cure  my  anguish,   which  now  is  in  its  dawn, 
You'll  cause  my  sad  overthrow,  my  sweet  Colleen  Bawn." 

Then,   with  a  gentle  smile,   she  replied  unto  me, 

"I  cannot  tyrannize,  dear  Willie,  over  thee. 

My  father  he  is  wealthy,  and  gives  severe  command, 

If  you  but  gain  his  favor,  I'll  be  your  Colleen  Bawn." 

In  rapture  I  embraced  her,  we  swore  eternal  love, 
And  naught  should  separate  us,  except  the  power  above. 
I  hired  with  her  father,  and  left  my  friends  and  land, 
That  with  pleasure  I  might  gaze  on  my  fair  Colleen  Bawn. 

I   served  him  a  twelvemonth,   right  faithfully  and  just, 
Although  not  used  to  labor,  was  true  to  my  trust; 
I  valued  not  my  wages,  I  would  not  it  demand, 
For  I  could  live  for  ages  with  my  Colleen  Bawn. 

One  morning,  as  her  father  and  I  walked  out  alone, 
I  asked  him  for  his  daughter,  saying,  "Sir,  it  is  well  known, 
I  have  a  well-stoek'd  farm,  five  hundred  pounds  in  hand, 
Which  I'll  share  with  your  daughter,  my  fair  Colleen  Bawn." 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  119 

Her  father,  full  of  anger,  most  scornfully  did  frown, 
Saying,  "Here  are  your  wages;  now,  sir,  depart  the  town." 
Increasing  still  his  anger,   he  bid  me  quick  begone, 
"For  none  but  a  rich  squire  shall  wed  my  Colleen  Bawn." 
I  went  unto  his  daughter,   and  told  her  my  sad  tale, 
Oppress'd  with  grief  and  anguish,  we  both  did  weep  and  wail; 
She  said,  "My  dearest  Reilly,  the  thought  I  can't  withstand, 
That  in  sorrow  you  should  leave  me,  your  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 
A  horse  I  did  get  ready,  In  the  silent  night, 
Having  no  other  remedy,  we  quickly  took  our  flight, 
The  horse  he  chanced  to  stumble,  and  threw  both  along, 
Confused,  and  sorely  bruised,  me  and  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 
Again  we  quickly  mounted,   and  swiftly  rode  away, 
O'er  hills  and  lofty  mountains  we  travel'd  night  and  day; 
Her  father  swift  pursued  us,  with  his  well  chosen  band, 
And  I  was  overtaken,  with  my  fair  Colleen  Bawn. 

Committed  straight  to  prison,   there  to  lament  and  wail, 

And  utter  my  complaints  to  a  dark  and  dismal  jail, 

Loaded  with  heavy  irons,  till  my  trial  shall  come  on, 

But  I'll  bear  their  utmost  malice  for  my  dear  Colleen  Bawm. 

If  it  should  please  kind  fortune  once  more  to  set  me  free, 

For  well  I  know  my  charmer  is  constant  unto  me, 

Spite  of  her  father's  anger,   his  cruelty  and  scorn, 

I  hope  to  wed  my  heart's  delight,  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

THE  VESPER  HYMN. 

Hark,   the  vesper  hymn  is  stealing 

O'er  the  waters,  soft  and  clear- 
Nearer  yet,  and   nearer  pealing, 

Now  it  bursts  upon  the  ear: 

Jubilate,  Amen. 
Farther    now,    now    farther    stealing, 

Soft  it  fades  upon  the  ear. 
Now,  like  moonlight  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,   it  dies  along; 
Now  like  angry  surges  meeting, 

Breaks  the  mingled  tide  of  song. 
Hark!   again   like  waves  retreating 

To  the  shore,   it  dies  along. 

WHEN  FIRST  I  MET  THEE. 

When  first  I  met  thee,  warm  and  young. 

There  shone  such  truth  about  thee, 
And  on  thy  lip  such  promise  hung, 

I  did  not  dare  to  doubt  thee. 
I  saw  thee  change,  yet  still  relied, 

Still  clung  with  hope  the  fonder, 
And   thought,    though   false  to  all   beside, 

From  me  thou  couldst  not  wander. 

But  go.   deceiver!   go — 
The  heart,  whose  hopes  could  make  it 

Trust  one  so  false,  so  low, 

Deserves  that  thou  shouldst  break  it. 
When  every  tongue  thy  follies  named, 

I  fled  the   unwelcome  story; 
Or  found,  in  even  the  faults  they  blamed, 

Some  gleams  of  future  glory. 
I  still  was  true,  when  nearer  friends 

Conspired  to  wrong,  to  slight  thee; 
The  heart,  that  now  thy  falsehood  rends. 

Would  then  have  bled  to  right  thee. 

But  go,   deceiver!   go — 
Some  day,  perhaps,  thou'lt  waken 

From   pleasure's  dream,    to  know 
The  grief  of  hearts  forsaken. 


120  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Even  now,  though  youth  its  bloom  has  shed, 

No  lights  of  age  adorn  thee; 
The  few  who  loved  thee  once  have  fled, 

And  they  who  flatter  scorn  thee. 
Thy  midnight  cup  is  pledged  to  slaves, 

No  genial  ties  enwreathe  it; 
The  smiling  there,  like  light  on  graves, 

Has  rank,  cold  hearts  beneath  it. 

Go — go — though  worlds  were  thine, 
I  would  not  now  surrender 

One  taintless  tear  of  mine 
For  all  thy  guilty  splendor! 


WHILE  HISTOEY'S  MUSE. 

While  History's  Muse  the  memorial  was  keeping 

Of  all  that  the  dark  hand  of  Destiny  weaves, 
Beside  her  the  Genius  of  Erin  stood  weeping, 

For  hers  was  the  story  that  blotted  the  leaves. 
But  oh,  how  the  tear  in  her  eyelids  grew  bright, 

When,  after  whole  pages  of  sorrow  and  shame 
She  saw  History  write,  with  a  pencil  of  light 

That  illumin'd  the  whole  volume,  her  Wellington's  name. 

"Hail,   Star  of  my  Isle!"  said  the  Spirit,  all  sparkling 

With  beams  such  as  break  from  her  own  dewy  skies — 
"Through   ages  of   sorrow,  deserted  and  darkling, 

I've  watched  for  some  glory  like  thine  to  arise. 
For  though  heroes  I've  numbered,   unblest  was  their  lot, 

And  unhallowed  they  sleep  in  the  crossways  of  Fame — 
But  oh,   there  is  not  one  dishonoring  blot 

On  the  wreath  that  encircles , my  Wellington's  name! 

Yet  still  the  last  crown  of  thy  toils  is  remaining, 

The  grandest,  the  purest,  even  thou  hast  yet  known: 
Though   proud  was  thy  task,  other  nations  unchaining, 

Far  prouder  to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of  thy  own. 
At  the  foot  of  that  throne  for  whose  weal  thou  hast  stood, 

Go,  plead  for  the  land  that  first  cradled  thy  fame — 
And,  bright  o'er  the  flood  of  her  tears  and  her  blood, 

Let  the  rainbow  of  Hope  be  her  Wellington's  name!" 


WEEP  ON,  WEEP  ON. 

Weep  on,  weep  on,  your  hour  is  past, 

Your  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er; 
The  fatal   chain  is  round  you  cast, 

And  you  are  men  no  more! 
In  vain  the  Hero's  heart  hath   bled, 

The  Sage's  tongue  hath  warned  in  vain; 
Oh!  freedom,  once  thy  flame  hath  fled, 

It  never  lights  again. 

Weep  on,  perhaps  in  after  years 

They'll   learn  to   love  your  name, 
And  many  a  deed  may  wake  in  praise 

That    long  hath   slept  in   blame! 
And  when  they  tread  the  ruined  Isle 

Where  rest  at  length  the  lord  and  slave, 
They'll  wondering  ask  how  hands  so  vile 

Could  conquer  hearts   so  brave. 

"  'Twas  fate,"  they'll  say,  "a  wayward  fate, 

Your  web  of  discord  wove; 
And  while  your  tyrants  joined  in  hate 

You  never  joined  in   love. 
But  hearts  full  of  that  ought  to  twine 

And  man  profaned  what  God  hath  given, 
Till  some  were  heard  to  curse  the  shrine 

Where  others   knelt  to   Heav'n!" 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER. 


121 


SJear  £rfn,  bow  sweetly 


1.  Dear 

2.  Thy 


1.  E    -    rin,    how        sweet  -  ly   thy    green     bo    -    torn       ris    -    es.      An      em   -   er  -  aid 

2.  sons  .    .   they  am     brave,    but  the     bat  -  tie        once       o    -     ver,     In      bro  -  ther  -  ly 


^ 


rfj>   J      fit,     i    uJ-r^r"     i      i  _  .    r  /"i 

T^T=3 

^      1.  set        in    the     ring      of       the      sea  ;             Each  *"     blade      of     thy 
2.  peace    with  their  foes    they       a   -  gree  ;            And  the      ros    -  e   -  ate 

-i  —  •-  —  *  *  i 

mea  -  dovvs  my 
cheeks     of  thy 

Ep  "    —  J    4  \  4  T^—  —  1  «*'  J  J-—  1  
=  —  '"        :==           •  r    4   4 

r    -^ 

l^i-^'     •  r.J  J=J—  ^LLrvr-^-  1  (J  '-^— 

1.  faith  -ful          heart     priz  -  ea,      Thou      queen        of    the     west!     the  world's  cush  •  la     -     ma- 

2.  daugh-ters         die  -   cov  -  er     The        soul  -  speak-iog    bluih    that  says,  "cush  -.la     -     ma- 


Ihava heard Carran'B BODB enng  to  various  Irish  airs.auch  aa"Palatbeen  Faen,"  "Dennot  O'Dowd," "The  Bank  of  Or* 
Ruehei,"  and  others ;  the  original  aettin?  was  probably  the  old  air,  "  Palitbeeo  Ftien,"  of  which  the  above  melody  tweiUJ  W  1 
ft  fOTsa.  1  buvt  tak«n  it  from  H^nUerxoQ'a  little  coUection  ol  Iriih  «oug»  and  air»  publinhed  ut  Cellut  In  1M7. 


122 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 
DEAB  EEIN.  HOW  SWEETLY. 


ES 


chree  I 
2.  -  chree!" 


Thy    gates  o  -  pen    wide     to       the     poor          and  the    etran  -  ger ;     There 

Then  flour      -    ish    for      ev  -  er,     my     dear          na  -  ti»e       E   -   rin,    While 


TT- 


§»-»  i       u  p-i 


s 


EEE± 


1.  smiles      hos-pi   -    tal   •   i    -   ty,       hear  •  ty      and       free!  Thy      friend  -   ship   is 

2.  sad     -    Jy      I        wan  -der      an        ex  -   ile     from      thee;  Anil      firm          as   thy 


--* 


P 


£=£=i 


1.  seen       in       the 

2.  moun  -  t,iins,    no 


ment  of          dan  -    ger;     And  the        wa 
•    ju  -  ry         fear  -   ing,      May  he 


1.  wel    -    eom'd  with       cush  -   la   -    ma   -    chree. 

2.  fend  its     own       cuah  -  la   -    ma   -    chree! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  123 

WHILE  GAZING  ON  THE  MOON'S  LIGHT. 

While  gazing  on  the  moon's  light, 

A  moment  from  her  smile  I  turned, 
To  look  at  orbs  that,  more  bright, 

In   lone  and  distant  glory  burned. 
But  too  far,  each  proud  star, 

For  me  to  feel  its  warming  flame; 
Much  more  dear  that  mild  sphere, 

Which  near  our  planet  smiling  came; 
Thus,   Mary,  be  but  thou  my  own; 

While  brighter  eyes  unheeded  play, 
I'll  love  those  moonlight  looks  alone, 

That  bless  my  home  and  guide  my  way. 

The  day  had  sunk  in  dim  showers, 

But  midnight  now,  with  lustre  meet, 
Illumed  all  the  pale  flowers, 

Like  hope  upon  a  mourner's  cheek. 
I  said  (while  the  moon's  smile 

Played  o'er  a  stream,  in  dimpling  bliss) 
"The  moon  looks  on  many  brooks, 

The  brook  can  see  no  moon  but  this." 
And  thus,   I  thought,  our  fortunes  run, 

For  many  a  lover  looks  to  thee; 
While  oh,  I  feel  there  is  but  one, 

One  Mary  in  the  world  for  me! 

WILLY  REILLY. 

"Oh,  rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  along  with  me, 

I  mean  for  to  go  with  you  and  leave  this  counterie, 

To  leave  my  father's  dwelling-house,  his  houses  and  free  land;" 

And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

They  go  by  hills  and  mountins,   and  by  yon  lonesome  plain, 
Through  shady  groves  and  valleys,   all  dangers  to  refrain; 
But  her  father  followed  after,  with  a  well-arm'd  band, 
And  taken  was  poor  Reilly  and  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

It's  home  then  she  was  taken,  and  in  her  closet  bound, 
Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground, 
Till  at  the  bar  of  justice  before  the  Judge  he'd  stand, 
For.  nothing  but  the  stealing  of  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

"Now,  In  the  cold,  cold  iron,  my  hands  and  feet  are  bound, 
I'm  handcuffed  like  a  murderer,   and  tied  unto  the  ground, 
But  all  the  toil  and  slavery  I'm  willing  for  to  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored  by  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

The  jailor's  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did  say, 
"Oh!  get  up,  Willy  Reilly,  you  must  appear  this  day, 
For  great  Squire  Foillard's  anger  you  never  can  withstand, 
I'm  afear'd  you'll  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

Now  Willy's  dressed  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a  suit  of  green, 
His  hair  hangs  o'er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to  be  seen; 
He's  tall  and  straight  and  comely,  as  any  could  be  found, 
He's  fit  for  Foillard's  daughter,  was  she  the  heiress  to  a  crown. 

"This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I  did  hear, 
The  lady's  oath  will  hang  you,  or  else  will  set  you  clear." 
"If  that  be  so,"  says  Reilly,   "her  pleasure  I  will  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored  by  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

The  Judge  he  said,  "This  lady  being  in  her  tender  youth, 
If  Reilly  has  deluded  her,  she  will  declare  the  truth." 
Then,  like  a  moving  beauty  bright  before  him  she  did  stand, 
"You're  welcome  there,  my  heart's  delight  and  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

"Oh,  gentlemen,"  Squire  Foillard  said,   "with  pity  look  on  me, 
This  villain  came  amongst  us  to  disgrace  our  family; 
And  by  his  base  contrivances  this  villainy  was  planned, 
If  I  doa't  got  satisfaction  I'll  quit  this  Irish  laud." 


124  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

The  lady  with  a  tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she: 

"The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly's,  the  blame  lies  all  on  me; 

I  forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along  with  me, 

I  loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  wrought  our  destiny." 

Out  spoke  the  noble  Fox,  at  the  table  he  stood  by, 

"Oh!  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity; 

To  hang  a  man  for  love  is  a  murder,  you  may  see, 

So  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  counterie." 

"Good,  my  lord,  he  stole  from  her,  her  diamonds  and  her  rings, 

Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious  things, 

Which  cost  me  in  bright  guineas  more  than  five  hundred  pounds — 

I'll  have  the  life  of  Reilly  should  I  lose  ten  thousand  pounds." 

"Good,   my  lord,   I  gave  them  him  as  tokens  'of  true'  love, 

And  when  we  are  a-parting  I  will  them  all  remove, 

If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home  to  me." 

"I  will,  my  loving  lady,  with  many  thanks  to  thee." 

"There  is  a  ring  among  them  I  allow  yourself  to  wear, 

With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set  in  silver  fair, 

And  as  a  true-love  token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, 

That  you'll  think  on  my  poor  broken  heart  when  you're  in  a  foreign  land." 

Then  out  spoke  noble  Fox,   "You  may  let  the  prisoner  go, 

The  lady's  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  jury  all  may  know; 

She  has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  renewed  his  name, 

May  her  honor  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  offspring  rise  to  fame!" 

THE  MAIDS  OF  MERRY  IRELAND. 

Oh,  the  maids  of  merry  Ireland,  so  beautiful  and  fair, 
With  eyes   like  diamonds  sparkling,   and  richly  flowing  hair, 
Their  hearts  are  light  and  cheerful,  and  their  spirits  ever  gay, 
The  maids  of  merry  Ireland,  how  beautiful  are  they! 

They  are  like  the  lovely  flowers  in  summer  time  that  bloom, 
On  the  sportive  breezes  shedding  their  choice  and  sweet  perfume, 
Our  eyes  and   hearts  delighting  with  their  varied  array. 
The  maids  of  merry  Ireland,  how  beautiful  are  they! 

They  smile  when  we  are  happy^  when  we  are  sad  they  sigh; 
When  anguish  wrings  our  bosoms,  the  tear  they  gently  dry; 
Oh,   happy  is  the  nation   that  owns  their  tender   sway, 
The  maids  of  merry  Ireland,  how  beautiful  are  they! 

Then  ever  like  true  patriots  may  we  join  both  heart  and  hand, 
To  protect  the  lovely  maidens  of  this  our  fatherland; 
And  that  Heaven  may  ever  bless  them,  we  all  devoutly  pray, 
Oh,   the  maids  of  merry  Ireland,  how  beautiful  are  they! 

WHAT  WILL  YOU  DO,  LOVE? 

What  would  you  do,  love,  when  I  am  going, 

With  white  sails  flowing,  the  seas  beyond? 
What  will  you  do,   love,  when  waves  divide  us, 

And  friends  may   chide  us   for  being  fond? 
Tho"   waves  divide  us  and  friends  be  chiding, 

In  faith  abiding  I'll  still  be  true, 
And  I'll  pray  for  thee  on  the  stormy  ocean, 

In  deep  devotion— that's  what  I'll  do. 
What  would  you  do,   love,   If  distant  tidings 

Thy  fond  confldings  should  undermine, 
And  I,  abiding  'neath  sultry  skies, 

Should  think  other  eyes  were  as  bright  as  thine? 
Oh!  name  it  not! — tho"  guilt  and  shame 

Were  on  thy  name — I'd  still  be  true! 
But  that  heart  of  thine  should  another  share  it, 

I  could  not  bear  it — what  would  I  do? 
What  would  you  do,  love,  when  home  returning, 

With  hopes  high  burning,  with  wealth  for  you, 
If  my  bark,  which  bounded  o'er  foreign  foam, 

Should  be  lost  near  homo— ah!  what  would  y«u  4«? 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  U5 

So  thou  wert  spared,  I'd  blest;  the  morrow, 

In  want  and  sorrow,  that  left  me  you! 
And  I'd  welcome  thee  from  the  wasting  billow, 

This  heart  thy  pillow — that's  what  I'd  do! 

YOU'LL   REMEMBER  ME. 

When  other  lips  and  other  hearts 

Their  talos  of  love  shall  tell, 
In  language  whose  excess  imparts 

The  power  they  feel  so  well; 
There  may,  perhaps,  in  such  a  scene, 

Some   recollection   be 
Of  days  that  have  as  happy  been, 

And  you'll  remember  me. 

When  coldness,  or  deceit,  shall  slight 

The  beauty  now  they  prize, 
And  deem  it  but  a  faded  light 

Which  beams  within  your  eyes; 
When  hollow  hearts  shall  wear  a  mask 

'Twill  break  your  own  to  see — 
In  such  a  moment  I   but  ask 

That  you'll  remember  me. 


KILLARNEY. 

By  Killarney's  lakes  and  fells 

Em'rald  isles  and  winding  bays, 
Mountain  paths  and  woodland  dells, 

Mem'ry   ever   fondly   strays. 
Bounteous  nature  loves  all  lands, 

Beauty  wanders  ev'ry  where, 
Footprints  leave  on   many  strands, 

But  her  home  is  surely  there! 
Angels  fold  their  wings,   and  rest 

In  that  Eden  of  the  west, 
Beauty's   home,    Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney — 

Innisfallen's    ruined    shrine, 

May  suggest  a  passing  sigh. 
But  man's  faith  can   ne'er  decline 

Such  God's  wonders  floating  by; 
Castle  Lough  and  Glenna  Bay, 

Mountains  Tore  and  Eagle's  Nest; 
Still   at  Mucross   you   must  pray, 

Though  the  monks  are  now  at  rest. 
Angels  wonder  not  that  man 

There  would  fain  prolong  life's  span 
Beauty's   home,    Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney — 

No  place  else  can   charm   the  eye 

With   such  bright  and  varied  tints; 
Every  rock  that  you  pass  by, 

Verdure  broiders  or  besprints. 
Virgin  there  the  green  grass  grows, 

Every  morn  Spring's  natal  day, 
Bright-hued  berries  daft  the   snows, 

Smiling  winter's  frown  away. 
Angels  often  pausing  there, 

Doubt  if  Eden  were  more  fair; 
Beauty's  home,    Killarney, 
_Ever  fair  Killarney— 

Music  there  for  Echo  dwells, 
Makes   each   sound  a  harmony; 

Many  voiced   the  chorus  swells, 
Till  it  faints  in  ecstacy. 

With  the   charmful   tints  below 


126  HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 

Seems  the  heaven  above  to  vie; 
All  rich  colors  that  we  know, 

Tinge  the  cloud  wreaths  in  that  sky. 
Wings  of  angels  so  might  shine 

Glancing  back  soft  light  divine; 
Beauty's   home,    Killarney, 

Ever  fair  Killarney— 

YOU  REMEMBER  ELLEN. 

You   remember  Ellen,    our  hamlet's  pride, 

How  meekly  she  blest  her  humble  lot 
When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride, 

And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together   they   toiled   through   winds   and   rains, 

Till  William,  at  length,   in  sadness  said, 
"We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains" — 

Then  sighing,   she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roamed  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden's  heart  at  ease, 
When  now,  at  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a  proud  castte  among  the  trees. 
"To-night,"  said  the  youth,  "we'll  shelter  there; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  the  hour  is  late;" 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air, 

And  the  porter  bowed  as  they  passed  the  gate. 

"Now,  welcome,  Lady!"  exclaimed  the  youth, 

"This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all!" 
She  believed  him  crazed,  but  his  words  were  truth, 

For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Rosna  Hall! 
And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

What  William  the  stranger  wooed  and  wed; 
And  the  light  of  bliss,  in  these  lordly  groves, 

Shines  pure  as  it  did  in  the  lowly  shed. 

YOU  WOULD  NOT  LEAVE  YOUK  NORAH! 

"You  would  not  leave  your  Norah 

To  pine  alone  behind, 
The  wide,   wide  world  before  her, 

And  no  one  to  be  kind? 
The  times   are  hard   and  trying, 

But,   Dennis,   perhaps  they'll  mend, 
You  would  not  leave  your  Norah? 

You  yet  may  want  a  friend." 
CHORUS.— You  would  not  leave  your  Norah 
To   pine  alone   behind, 

The  wide,  wide  world  before  her, 

And  no   one  to  be  kind? 
"Yes,  Norah,  dear,  I'm  going, 

And  yet  it  breaks  my  heart, 
To  see  your  eyes  are  flowing 

With  tears  because  we  part. 
'Tis  sad  to  leave  old  Erin, 

A  stranger's  home  to  share, 
But  sadder  still,   I'm   fearing, 

With  none  to  love  me  there." 

You  could  not,  etc. 
"Then,   Dennis,  take  me  with  you, 

You  know  not  half  I'd  do, 
There's  no  one  to  forbid  you, 

I've  saved  a  pound  or  two; 
I'll  soothe  you  in  every   sorrow, 

If  first  the  priest  you'll   tell;" 
Yes,    Norah,   dear,    to-morrow, 

Then  Erin,   fare  thee  well. 

You  could  not,  «te. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  127 


When  thro'  life  unblest  we  rove, 

Losing  all  that  made  life  dear, 
Should  some  notes  we  us'd  to  love 

In  days  of  boyhood,  meet  our  ear, 
Oh,   how  welcome  breathes  the  strain, 

Wak'ning  thoughts  that  long  have  slept, 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 

In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 
Like  the  gale,  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  oriental   flow'rs, 
Is   the  grateful   breath  of  song, 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours; 
Filled  with  balm  the  gale  goes  on, 

Tho'  the  flow'rs  have  sunk  in  death 
So  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone 

Its  memory  lives  in  music's  breath. 
Music,  oh!  how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell; 
Why  should  feeling  ever  speak 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well? 
Friendship's  balmy  words   may  feign, 

Love's  are  ev'n  more  false  than  they; 
Oh!   'tis  only  music's  strain, 

Can  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray! 


JUANITA. 

Soft  o'er  the  fountain, 

Ling'ring  falls  the  southern  moon; 
Far  o'er   the   mountain, 

Breaks  the  day  too  soon! 
In   thy  dark  eye's    splendor, 

Where  the  warm  light  loves  to  dwell 
Weary  looks,   yet  tender, 

Speak  their  fond  farewell! 
Nita!    Juanita! 

Ask  thy  soul  if  we  should  part! 
Nita!    Juanita! 

Lean  thou  on  my  heart. 

When   in   thy  dreaming 

Moons  like  these  shall  shine  again, 
And  daylight  beaming, 

Prove   thy   dreams   are  vain, 
Wilt  thou  not,   relenting, 

For  thine  absent  lover  sigh, 
In  thy  heart  consenting 

To  a  prayer  gone  by? 
Nita!    Juanita! 

Let  me  linger  by  thy  side! 
Nita!    Juanita! 

Be  my  own  fair  bride! 


THE  FOUF.-LEAVED  SHAMROCK. 

I'll  seek  a  four-leaved  shamrock  in  all  the  fairy  dells, 
And  if  I  find  the  charmed  leaves,  O,  how  I'll  weave  my  spells! 
I  would  not  waste  my  magic  might  on  diamond,  pearl,  or  gold, 
For  treasure  tires  the  weary  sense — such  triumph  is  but  cold; 
But  I  would  play  th'  enchanter's  part,  in  casting  bliss  around — 
Oh!  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  in  the  world  be  found. 

To  worth  I  would  give  honor;  I'd  dry  the  mourner's  tears, 

And  to  the  pallid  lip  recall  the  smile  of  happier  years, 

And  hearts  that  had  been  long  estranged,  and  friends  that  had  grown  cold, 

Should  meet  again,  like  parted  streams,  and  mingle  as  of  old. 

Oh!  thus  I'd  play  th'  enchanter's  part,   thus  scatter  bliss  around, 

And  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  in  the  world  be  found! 


128  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

The  heart  that  had  been  mourning  o'er  vanished  dreams  of  love, 
Should  see  them  all  returning— like   Noah's  faithful   dove; 
And  Hope  should  launch  her  blessed  bark  on  Sorrow's  dark'ning  sea, 
And  Mis'ry's  children  have  an  Ark,   and  saved  from  sinking  be. 
Oh!  thus  I'd  play  th'  enchanter's  part,   thus  scatter  bliss  around. 
And  not  a  tear,  nor  aching  heart,  should  In  the  world  bo  found! 

FAUGH-A-BALLAGH. 

"Hope  no  more  for   Fatherland, 
All  its  ranks  are  thinned  or  broken;" 
Long  a  base  and  coward  band 
Recreant  words  like  these  have  spoken 
But  we  preach  a  land  awoken: 
Fatherland  is  true  and  tried, 
As  your  fears  are  false  and  hollow; 
Slaves  and  Dastards  stand  aside- 
Knaves  and  Traitors,    Faugh-a-Ballagh. 

Know  ye,   suffering  brethren  ours, 
Might  is  strong,   but  Right  is  stronger; 
Saxon  wiles  or  Saxon   powers 
Can   enslave   our  land   no    longer 
Than  your  own  dissensions  wrong  her; 
Be  ye  one  in  might  and  mind — 
Quit   the  mire  where  cravens  wallow — 
And  your  foes   shall  flee  like  wind 
From    your    fearless    Faugh-a-Ballagh. 

Thus  the  mighty  multitude 

Speak  in  accents  hoarse  with  sorrow — 

"We  are  fallen,  but  unsubdued; 

Show  us  whence  we  Hope  may  borrow, 

And  we'll  flght  your  fight  to-morrow. 

Be  but  cautious,   true,  and  brave, 

Where  ye  lead  us,  we  will  follow; 

Hill   and   valley,    rock  and   wave 

Soon   shall    hear   our    Faugh-a-Ballagh. 

Fling  our  banner  to  the  wind, 
Studded  o'er  with  names  of  glory; 
Worth   and  wit,   and  might  and  mind, 
Poet   young,    and    Patriot   hoary, 
Long  shall  make  it  shine  in  story. 
Close  your  ranks — the  moment's  come — 
Now,   ye  men   of  Ireland  follow; 
Friends  of  Freedom,   charge  them  home — 
Foes  of  Freedom,   Faugh-a-Ballagh. 

WHEN  THE  SWALLOWS  HOMEWARD  FLY. 

When  the  swallows  homeward  fly. 

When  the  roses  scattered  lie, 

When,  from  neither  hill  nor  dale, 

Chants  the  silvery  nightingale. 
CHORUS. — In  these  words  my  bleeding  heart 

Would  to  thee  its  grief  impart: 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 
Parting,  ah!  parting,  parting  is  pain. 
Parting,  ah!  parting,  parting  is  pain! 

When   the  white  swan    southward   roves, 

There   to   seek   the  orange  groves, 

When  the  red  tints  of  the  West 

Prove  the  sun  has  gone  to  rest: 
CHORUS. — In  these  words  my  bleeding  heart 

Would  to  thee  its  grief  impart: 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 
Parting,  ah!   parting,  parting  is  paiu, 
Parting,  ah!  parting,  parting  is  pain! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  129 

0  poor  heart!   whate'er  befall, 
There   Is   rest  for   thee   and  all 
That  on  earth  which   fades  away, 
Comes  again  in  bright  array: 

CHORUS. — In  these  words  my  bleeding  heart 
Would  to  thee  its  grief  impart: 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again? 

Parting,   ah!   parting,   parting  is  pain, 

Parting,  ah!  parting,  parting  is  pain! 

A  NATION  ONCE  AGAIN. 

When  boyhood's  fire  was  in  my  blood, 

1  read  of  ancient  freemen, 

For  Greece  and  Rome  who  bravely  stood, 

Three  hundred   men   and   three  men. 
And  then   I  prayed  I  yet  might  see 

Our   fetters   rent  in    twain, 
And  Ireland,   long  a  province,   be 

A  nation   once   again. 

And,   from  that  time,  through  wildest  woe, 

That  hope  has  shone,  a  far  light; 
Nor  could  love's  brightest  summer  glow 

Outshine  that  solemn  starlight. 
It  seemed  to  watch  above  my  head 

In  forum,  field  and  fane; 
Its  angel  voice  sang  round  my  bed, 

A  nation   once   again. 

It  whispered,  .top,  that  "freedom's  ark" 

And   service   high   and   holy, 
Would  be  profaned  by  feelings  dark 

And   passions    vain   or   lowly. 
For  freedom  comes  from  God's  right  hand, 

And    needs   a   godly   train, 
And  righteous  men  must  make  our  land 

A   nation    once   again. 

So,   as  I  grew  from   boy  to  man, 

I  bent   me   to  that  bidding — 
My  spirit  of  each  selfish  plan 

And   cruel  passion  ridding; 
For  thus  I  hoped  some  day  to  aid — 

Oh!    can   such  hope   be   vain? 
When  my   dear  country  shall   be  made 

A  nation   once   again. 


MY  POOR   HEART  IS   SAD. 

My  poor  heart  is  sad  with  its  dreaming, 

It  brings  back  the  once  happy  day, 
When  earth  like  a  heaven  was  seeming, 

But  now  it  has  passed  all  away — 
They   say   that   young  love's   like  the  flower 

That  needs  tender  care  in  its  urn, 
But  mine  it  was  snatched  from  its  bower, 

And  I  never  gained  one  in  return. 
CHORUS.— My  poor  heart  is  sad  with  its  dreaming: 

For,  it  brings  back  the  once  happy  day 
When  earth  like  a  heaven  was  seeming, 
But  now  it  has  all  passed  away. 

My  sad  heart  recalls  all  the  pleasure 

Of  thoughts  that  were  all,  all  for  thee, 
When  dreaming  of  you,  of  its  treasure, 

And  you  seemed  to  love  none  but  me; 
Tho'  we  meet  not  as  friends,  yet  I'll  never 

One  unkind  word  to  thee  give; 
For,   your  cherished  memory   ever 

Shall  be  my  sole  joy  while  I  live!  Chorus: 


130  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

RING   THE   BELL   SOFTLY. 

Some  one  has  gone  from  this  strange  world  of  ours, 
No  more  to  gather  its  thorns  with  its  flowers, 
No  more  to  linger,   where  sunbeams  must  fade, 
Where,    on   all   beauty,    Death's   fingers  are   laid, 
Weary   with  mingling  life's  bitter  and   sweet, 
Weary  with  parting  and  never  to  meet, 
Some  one  has  gone  to  the  bright  golden  shore! 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door; 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  oil  the  door. 
CHORUS. — Weary  with  mingling  life's   bitter   and  sweet, 

Weary  with  parting,  never  to  meet, 

Some  one  has  gone  to  the  bright  golden  shore! 

Ring  the  bell  softly,   there's   crape  on  the  door; 

Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door. 
Some  one  is  resting  from  sorrow  and  sin, 
Happy  where  earth's  conflicts  enter  not  in. 
Joyous  as  birds,  when  the  morning  is  bright; 
When  the  sweet  sunbeams  have  brought  us  their  light, 
Weary  with  sowing  and  never  to  reap, 
Weary  with  labor  and  welcoming  sleep. 
Some   one's  departed   to   Heaven's  glad   shore! 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door; 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door. 

CHORUS.— Weary  with  mingling,  etc. 
Angels  were  anxiously  longing  to  meet 
One  who  walks  with  them  in  Heaven's  bright  street; 
Loved  ones  have  whispered  that  some  one  is  blest, 
Free  from  earth's  trials,  and  taking  sweet  rest. 
Yes!  there  is  one  more  in  angelic  bliss, 
One  less  to  cherish,  and  one 'less  to  kiss, 
One  more   departed  to  Heaven's  bright   shore! 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door: 
Ring  the  bell  softly,  there's  crape  on  the  door. 

CHORU.S. — Weary  with  mingling,  etc. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

It  was  on  one  fine  morning  for  soft  recreation, 

I  heard  a  fair  damsel  making  sad  moan, 
Sighing  and   sobbing  with  sad   lamentation, 

Saying  my  Blackbird  most  loyal  has  flown. 
My  thoughts  they  deceived  me,  reflection  it  grieves  me, 

And  I  am  o'erburden'd  with  sad  misery; 
But  if  death  should  find  me,  as  true  love  inclines  me. 

My  Blackbird  I'll  seek  out  wherever  I  be. 
Once  in   fair  England  my  Blackbird   did  flourish, 

He  was  the  chief  flower  that  in  it  did  spring, 
Fair   ladies  of   honor  his  person   did   nourish. 

Because  that  he  was  the  true  son  of  a  king. 
But,  O,  that  false  fortune  has  proved  so  uncertain, 

That  caus'd  the  parting  between  you   and  me. 
But  if  he  remain  in   France  or  in  Spain, 

I'll  be  true  to  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be. 
In  England  my  Blackbird  and  I  were  together, 

When  he  was  the  most  noble  and  gen'rous  of  heart, 
But  woe  to  the  time  when  he  arrived  there, 

Alas!  he  was  soon  forced  from  me  to  part. 
In  Italy  he  beam'd  and  was  highly  esteemed, 

In  England  he  seems  but  a  stranger  to  me, 
But  if  he  remain  in  France  or  in  Spain, 

All  blessings  on  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be. 
But  if  by  the  fowler  my  Blackbird  is  taken, 

Sighing  and  sobbing  will  be  all  the  tune; 
But  if  he  is  safe,  and  I'm  not  misatken, 

I  hope  I  shall  see  him  in  May  or  in  June. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  131 

The  birds  of  the  forest,  they  all  flock  together; 

The  turtle  was  chosen  to  dwell  with  the  doy«, 
So  I'm  resolved  in  fair  or  foul  weather. 

Once  in  the  Spring  to  seek  out  my  love. 
Oh,  he  is  all  my  treasure,  my  joy  and  my  pleaiurt, 

He's  Justly  belov'd  though  my  heart  follow  thee, 
How  constant  and  kind,  and  courageous  of  mind, 

Deserving  of  blessing  wherever  he  be. 

It's  not  the  wide  ocean  can  fright  me  with  danger, 

Although  like   a  pilgrim  I  wander  forlorn, 
For  I'll  find  more  friendship  from  one  that's  a  stranger, 

More  than  from  one  that  in  Briton  was  born. 


SONG   OF  INNISFAIL. 

They  came  from  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

And  now  o'er  the  western  main 
Set  sail,   in   their  good   ships,   gallantly, 

From  the  sunny  land  of  Spain. 
"Oh!  where's  the  Isle  we've  seen  in  dreams, 

Our  destined  home  or  grave?" 
Thus  sung  they,  as  by  the  morning's  beams, 

They  swept   the  Atlantic  wave. 
And,  lo!  where  afar  o'er  ocean  shines 

A  sparkle  of  radiant  green, 
As  though  in  that  deep  lay  emerald  mines, 

Whose  light  through  the  wave  was  seen. 
"  'Tis   Innisfail,    'tis  Innisfail!" 

Rings  o'er  the  echoing  sea; 
While  bending  to  Heav'n,  the  warriors  hail 

That  home  of  the  brave  and  free. 
Then  turned  they  unto  the  Eastern  wave, 

Where   now    their   Day-G|od's    eye 
A  look  of  such  sunny  omen  gave 

As  lighted  up  sea  and  sky; 
Nor  frown  was  seen   through  sky  or  sea, 

Nor  tear  o'er  leaf  or  sod, 
When  first  on  the  Isle  of  Destiny 

Our  great  forefathers  trod. 


AILLEEN. 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'Tis  not  for  love  of  fame; 
Tho'    fortune    should    her    smile    bestow, 

And  I  may  win  a  name,  Ailleen, 

And  I  may  win   a  name. 
And  yet  it  is   for   gold   I  go, 

And  yet  it  is   for  fame, 
That    they    may    deck    another    brow, 

And    bless    another   name,    Ailleen, 

And  bless   another  name. 
For  this— but   this— I    go;    for   this 

I   lose  thy   love   awhile, 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of   thy  young,    faithful    smile,    Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,    faithful  smile. 
And  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate, 

And   woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tempt  a  wave,  and  try  a  fate 

Upon  a  stranger  shore,  Ailleen, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 
Oh!  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care! 
Oh!  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear,   Ailleen, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear. 


HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

And  when  with  both  returned  again 
My   native   land   to   see, 

I   know  a  smile   will   meet  me   there. 
And  a  hand  will  welcome  me,   Ailleen, 
And  a  hand  will  welcome  me. 


'TIS  EVENING  BRINGS  MY  HEART. 

"Tis  evening  brings  my  heart  to  thee, 

When  all  is  lovely,  calm  and  still; 
That  welcome  hour  so  dear  to  me, 

When  purest  thoughts  my  bosom  fill! 
The  bird  flies  homeward  to  its  nest, 

The  zephyr  woos  the  wandering  bee, 
The  dewdrop  seeks  the  lily's  breast: 

So  evening  brings  my  heart  to  thee! 
CHORUS.— To  thee!  to  thee! 

'Tis  evening  brings  my  heart  to  thee! 

A  truant  beam   returns  again 

To  mingle  with  the  orb  of  day; 
A  streamlet,   winding  through  the  glen, 

Will  lose  itself  in  ocean  spray; 
And  when  the  sky  with  beauty  glows, 

And  starry  eyes  look  on  the  sea, 
When  weary  nature  seeks  repose, 

Then  evening  brings  my  heart  to  thee! — Chorus. 

Oh!  I  could  linger  at  thy  side, 

And  dream  away  my  every  care; 
Or  fancy  life  a  silver  tide, 

With   not  a   wave   to   ripple   there. 
Though  fortune  frown  and  coldly  spurn, 

And  mine  a  chequered  path  must  be. 
Till  mem'ry's  lamp  shall  cease  to  burn, 

Will  evening  bring  my  heart  to  thee!— Chorus. 

THE  RISING  OF  THE  MOON. 

"  'Oh,  then  tell  me,   Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so?' 
'Hush,  ma  bouchal,  hush  and  listen;' 

And  his  cheeks  were  all  aglow. 
'I  bear  ordhers  from  the  captain, 

Get  you   ready   quick   and   soon; 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon.       f 

"  'Oh,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Where  the  gatherin'  is  to  be?' 
'In  the  ould  spot  by  the  river, 

Right  well  known  to  you  and  me. 
One  word  more — for  signal  token, 

Whistle  up  the  marchin'   tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder 

By  the  risin'  of  the  moon.' 

"Out  from  many  a  mud-wall  cabin 

Eyes   were   watching  through  that  night, 
Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing 

For  the  blessed  warning  light. 
Murmurs  passed  along  the  valley, 

Like   the  banshee's   lonely  croon, 
And  a  thousand   blades  were  flashing 

At  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

"There  beside  the  singing  river 

That  dark  mass   of  men  was  seen, 
Far  above  the  shining  weapons 

Hung  their  own  beloved  green. 


HIBERNIAN   SONGSTER.  133 

'Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor, 

Forward,   strike  the  marchin'  tune, 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  Freedom! 

'Tis  the  risin'  of  the  moon.' 

"Well  they  fought  for  poor  old  Ireland 

And   full  bitter  was  their  fate. 
(Oh,  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 

Fill  the  name  of  Ninety-eight!) 
Yet,  thank  God,  e'en  still  are  beating 

Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon, 
Who  would   follow  in  their  footsteps. 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 


THE  WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning; 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you. 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "true  lovers!  don't  sever." 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose  them; 

Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my  bosom. 

I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you; 

I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you. 
O!    your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vex'd  farmer, 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me, 
Then,   wandering,  I'll  wish  you,   in  silence,   to  love  me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie, 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy, 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give  her. 
O!    she'll  whisper  you,   "Love  as  unchangeably  beaming, 
And  trust,   when  in  secret  most  tunefully  streaming, 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  you're  look'd  for,  or  come  without  warning, 
Kisses  and  welcomes  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "true  lovers,  don't  sever!" 


AN  IRISH  STEW. 

Sure,   I've  sung  ye  many  a  song  in  my  time, 

But  now  ye  want  something  new; 
So  I'm  afther  giving  a  bit  of  a  rhyme, 

Concerning  an   Irish  shtew. 
For  I've  got  the  original  ould  resate, 

For  cooking  to  rights  that  same; 
And  if  ye  can  only  get  hould  of  the  mate 

If  ye  shpoil  it,  yersilf's  to  blame. 
CHORUS.— So  let  me  give  ye  this  bit  of  advice— 

Ye  can  very  soon  prove  it's  true — 
That  nothing  in  life  it  half  so  nice, 
As  a  savory  Irish  shtew. 


134  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

In  choosing  your  mate,  don't  "cut  it  too  fat," 

Nor  by  eny  manes  over  lean, 
For  the  keind   o'   mutton  that  plazes   Pat 

Is — a  sort  of  betwixt  and  betwane. 
Your  pertaties  should  be  of  the  mealy  sort, 

And  your  onions  sound  and  swate; 
And  its  pale  'em,  and  wash  'em,  and  slice  'em,  yer  ought, 

And  pop  'em  both  in  with  the  mate. 

So  let  me  give,  etc. 

Then  pepper,  and  salt,  and  sason  to  taste — 

Och!   the  wather,   I'd  most  forgot — 
Pour  in— just  enough— if  ye  schwamp  it  the  laste, 

By  jabers,  ye'll  shpoil  the  lot. 
Then  yez  can  sit  down  and  watch  the  pot  boil, 

Till   the  mate's  doue  thoroughly  through; 
And  you'll  soon  be  rewarded  for  all  your  toil, 

By  a  savory  Irish  shtew. 

So  let  me  give,  etc. 


BAD   LUCK   TO   THIS  MARCHING. 

Bad  luck  to  this  marching, 

Pipeclaying  and  starching; 
How  neat  one  must  be  to  be  killed  by  the  French! 

I'm  sick  of  parading. 

Through  wet  and  cowld  wading, 
Or  standing  all  night  to  be  shot  in  the  trench. 

To  the  tune  o'   a  fife, 

They  dispose  of  your  life, 
You  surrender  your  soul  to  some  illigant  lilt, 

Now    I    like    Garryowen, 

When  I  hear  it  at  home, 
But  it's  not  half  so  sweet  when  you're  going  to  be  kilt. 

Then  though  up  late  and  early, 

Our   pay    comes   so   rarely, 
The  devil  a  farthing  we've  ever  to  spare; 

They  say  some  disaster 

Befell   the   paymaster; 
On  my  conscience  I  think  that  the  money's  not  there. 

And,   just  think,   what  a   blunder — 

They   won't    let   us   plunder, 
While  the  people  invite  us  to  rob  'em,  'tis  clear. 

Though  there  isn't  a  village, 

But  cries,    "Come  and  pillage," 
Yet  we  leave  all  the  mutton  behind  for  Mounseer. 

Like  a  sailor  that's  nigh  land, 

I    long    for    that    island 
Where  even  the  kisses  we  steal  if  we  please; 

Where  it  is  no  disgrace 

If  you  don't  wash  your  face. 
And  you've  nothing  to  do  but  stand  at  your  eaae. 

With  no  sergeant  t'  abuse  us, 

We  fight  to   amuse   us, 
Sure  it's  better  beat  Christian  than  kick  a  baboon; 

How   I'd  dance   like  a   fairy, 

To   see   ould   Dunleary, 
And  think  twice  ere  I'd  leave  it  to  be  a  dragoon. 

THE  BOYS  OF  KILKENNY. 

Oh,   the  boys  of  Kilkenny  are  brave  roaring  blades, 

And  if  ever  they  meet  with  the  nice  little  maids, 

They'll  kiss  them  and  coax  them,  and  spend  their  money  free — 

Of  all  the  towns  of  Ireland,  Kilkenny  for  me. 

In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  runs  a  clear  stream, 
In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  lives  a  pretty  dame; 
Her  lips  are  like  roses  and  her  mouth  much  the  same, 
Like  a  dish  of  fresh  strawberries  smothered  in  cream. 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER. 

Her  eyes  are  as  black  as  Kilkenny's  large  coal. 
Which  through  my  bosom  has  burnt  a  large  hole; 
Her  mind,  like  its  river,  Is  mild,  clear  and  pure, 
But  her  heart  is  more  hard  than  its  marble,  I'm  sura. 

Kilkenny's  a  pretty  town,  and  shines  where  it  stands, 
And  the  more  I  think  of  it  the  more  my  heart  warms, 
If  I  was  at  Kilkenny,  I  should  then  be  at  home, 
For  there  I  got  sweethearts,  but  here  can  get  none. 

I'll  build  my  love  a  castle  on  Kilkenny's  free  ground, 
Neither  lords,  dukes,  nor  squires,  shall  ever  pull  it  down, 
And  if  any  one  should  ask  you  to  tell  him  my  name, 
I  am  an  Irish  exile  and  from  Kilkenny  I  came. 


TO  IRELAND. 

When  dullness  shall  chain  the  wild  harp  that  would  praise  thee, 
When  its  last  sigh  of  freedom  is  heard  on  thy  shore, 

When  its  raptures  shall  bless  the  false  heart  that  betrays  thee — 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  thy  sons  are  less  tame  than  their  own  ocean  waters, 
When  their  last  flash  of  wit  and  of  genius  is  o'er, 

When  virtue  and  beauty  forsake  thy  young  daughters, 
Oh,   then,   dearest  Erin,   I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  the  sun  that  now  holds  its  bright  path  o'er  thy  mountains 
Forgets  the  green  fields  that  he  smiled  on  before, 

When  no  moonlight  shall  sleep  on  thy  lakes  and  thy  fountains— 
Oh,  then,  dearest  Erin,  I'll  love  thee  no  more! 

When  the  name  of  the  Saxon  and  tyrant  shall  sever, 
When  the  freedom  you  lost  you  no  longer  deplore. 

When  the  thoughts  of  your  wrongs  shall  be  sleeping  forever — 
Oh,   then,   dearest  Erin,   I'll   love  thee  no  more! 


HERE'S  TO  YOU,  OLD  LAND. 

Here's  to  you,  old  land,  and  the  blue  skies  above  you — 

Blue   skies   and  green   hills   that   like  true   lovers  meet; 
The  men  of  our  race,  deathless  race,  who  don't  love  you, 

Are  slaves  in  the  dust  at  the  foreigners  feet! 
Let  them  riot  in  chains  who  so  basely  inherit 

Their   master's  contempt  and  the  hate  of  the  true. 
While  the   noble  of  heart  and  the  gallant  of  spirit 

Engirdle  the  earth  in  proud  fealty  to  you! 

Oh,  England,  accurst!    What  new  wiles  canst  thou  fashion 

To  shape  us  again  to  thy  rapine  and  greed? 
We've  borne  thy  fell  power  and  have  drunk  of  thy  passion 

'Till  hatred  of  both  is  our  national  creed! 
Be  it  gold  for  thy  spy,  or  new  fetters  to  bind  us, 

New  bribes  for  the  church,  or  new  strength  for  the  state, 
Whatever  it  be,  sword  or  cell,  thou  shalt  find  us 

Grown  wise  in  our  council  and  strong  in  our  hate. 

Has  our  centuried  march   to  the  scaffold  and  prison, 

To  exile  and  grief,  made  your  conquest  secure? 
Behold!  all  the  dead— martyred  dead— have  arisen, 

In  us  both  their  faith  and  their  vengeance  endure. 
'Twixt  your  pride  and  your  fear  you  refused  us  concession, 

But  we  wear  not  your  chain,  tho'  each  link  were  of  gold; 
Undismayed  by  your  power,   we  deny   you  possession 

In  a  land  blood-enfranchised  by  freemeu  of  old. 


136  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

All  hail  the  glad  morn  which  the  prophets  foretold  you; 

Who  pierced  the  deep  gloom  with  the  clear  eyes  of  faith, 
When  the  nations  of  earth  with  great  joy  shall  behold  you 

Come   forth  in   new  beauty,   triumphant  o'er  death. 
For  they  who  oft  wept  at  thy  pitiful  story 

Now  hear  the  glad  song  which  is  borne  on  the  breeze; 
Thine  has  been  the  grief  and  thine  shall  be  the  glory, 

When  freedom  will  crown  thee  fair  queen  of  the  seas! 


AWAKE,  AND  LIE  DREAMING  NO  MORE. 

Ye  great  of  my  country,   how  long  will   ye  slumber, 

Spell-bound,  far  remote  from  her  once  happy  shore? 
Unmoved  by  her  wrongs  and  her  woes  without  number! 

Oh!  awake  then,  awake,  and  lie  dreaming  no  more! 
Awaken  to  fame  and  poor  Erin's  condition; 
To  heal  all  her  wounds  be  your  noblest  ambition; 
Oh!  break  off  the  spell  of  the  foreign  magician. 

Awake,  then,  awake,  and  lie  dreaming  no  more! 
Not  the  want  of  green  fields  nor  of  countless  resources 

The  sons  of  sweet  Erin  have  cause  to  deplore, 
Nor  the  want  of  brave  hearts  for  the  muster  of  forces; 

Awake,  then,  awake,   and  lie  dreaming  no  more! 
A  patriot  flame   and   endearing   emotion 
Are  wanting  to  bless  the  sweet  isle  of  the  ocean; 
Yet  Erin  is  worthy  of   love  and  devotion. 

Awake,  then,  awake,  and  lie  dreaming  no  more! 
Let  Fashion  no  more,   in  pursuit  of  vain  pleasure, 

To  far-distant  lands  in  her  train  draw  you  o'er; 
In  your  own  native  isle  is  the  goodliest  treasure; 

Awake,  then,  awake,   and  -lie  dreaming  no  more! 
When  once  love  and  pride  of  your  country  ye  cherish, 
The  seeds  of  disunion  and  discord  shall  perish, 
And  Erin,   dear  Erin,  in  loveliness  flourish. 

Awake,  then,  awake,  and  lie  dreaming  no  more! 

BARNEY  O'HEA. 

Now  let  me  alone,  though  I  know  you  won't, 

I  know  you  won't,   I  know  you  won't; 

Now  let  me  alone,  though  I  know  you  won't, 

Impudent   Barney   O'Hea. 

It  makes  me  outrageous  when  you're  so  contagious — 
You'd  better  look  out  for  the  stout  Corney  Creagh! 
For  he  is  the  boy  that  believes  I'm  his  joy — 
So  you'd   better  behave  yourself,   Barney   O'Hea, 
Impudent   Barney,    none  of   your  blarney, 

Impudent  Barney   O'Hea. 
I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  Brandon  fair, 
To  Brandon  fair,  to  Brandon   fair; 
For  sure  I'm  not  wanting  to  meet  you  there, 

Impudent  Barney    O'Hea. 
For  Corney's  at  Cork,  and  my  brother's  at  work. 

And  my  mother  sits  spinning  at  home  all  the  day, 
So  no  one  will  be  there,  of  me  to  take  care, 

And  I  hope  you  won't  follow  me,  Barney  O'Hea, 

Impudent  Barney   O'Hea. 

When  I  got  to  the  fair,  sure  the  first  I  met  there, 
The  first  I  met  there,   the  first  I  met  there — 
When  I  got  to  the  fair,  the  first  I  met  there, 

Was  impudent   Barney  O'Hea. 
He  bothered  and  teased  me,  though  somehow  he  pleased  me. 

Till  at  last — oh!   the  saints — what  will   poor  Corney  say? 
But  I  think  the  boy's  honest,  so  on  Sunday  I've  promised, 
For  better  or  worse  to  take  Barney   O'Hea. 
Impudent  Barney,  so  sweet  was  his  blarney, 
Impudent  Barney   O'Hea. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  137 

BIDDY  MCCARTY. 

Kind  friends,  if  you'll  listen,  I'll  sing  you  a  song, 

And  one  that  I  hope  you'll  be  pleased  at. 
I'm   not  very   fat,   but  then   what   of  that? 

I'm  a  person  that's  not  to  be  sneezed  at. 
Now,  I  don't  weigh  as  much  as  a  flsh-ball, 

Though   once  I   was  fat,   plump  and  hearty; 
For  I'm  pining  away,  since  I  met  with,  one  day, 

A  peanut  girl — Biddy  McCarty. 
For  I'm  pining  away,  since  I  met  with,  one  day, 

A  peanut  girl — Biddy  McCarty. 

Miss  Biddy  and  I  used  to  meet  on  the  sly, 

I'd  treat  her  whenever  she'd  ax  it; 
Each  day,  on  the  street,  Miss  Biddy  I'd  meet, 

Going  round,    peddling   nuts   in   a   basket. 
Sure,  I  thought  I  was  all  right  with  her  then, 

When  I  took  her,  one  night,  to  a  party; 
There  a  butcher  so  stout,  oh!    he  cut  me  right  out, 

And  he  stole  away   Biddy   McCarty. 
There  a  butcher  so  stout,  oh!    he  cut  me  right  out, 

And  he  stole  away  Biddy   McCarty. 

BRENNAN  ON  THE  MOOR. 

It's  of  a  famous  highwayman  a  story  I  will  tell; 
His  name  was  Willy  Brennan,  in  Ireland  he  did  dwell; 
And  on  the  Kilworth  mountains  he  commenced  his  wild  career, 
Where  many  a  wealthy  gentleman  before  him  shook  with  fear. 
CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  Brennan  on  the  Moor, 

Bold  and  undaunted  stood  young  Brennan  on  the  Moor. 
A  brace  of  loaded  pistols  he  carried  night  and  day; 
He  never  robbed  a  poor  man  upon  the  king's  highway, 
But  what  he'd  taken  from  the  rich,  like  Turpin  and  Black  Bess, 
He  always  did  divide  it  with  the  widow  in  distress. 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

One  night  he  robbed  a  packman,  of  the  name  of  Pedlar  Bawn; 
They  traveled  together  till  the  day  began  to  dawn; 
The  pedlar  seeing  his  money  gone,  likewise  his  watch  and  chain, 
He  at  once  encountered  Brennan  and  robbed  him  back  again. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 
Now,  Brennan,  seeing  the  pedlar  as  good  a  man  as  he, 
He  says,  "My  worthy  hero,  will  you  come  along  with  me?" 
The  pedlar,  being  stout-hearted,  he  threw  his  pack  away, 
And  he  proved  a  loyal  comrade  until  his  dying  day. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 
One  day  on  the  highway,  as  Willy  he  sat  down, 
He  met  the  Mayor  of  Cashel  a  mile  outside  the  town; 
The  Mayor,   he  knew  his  features — "I  think,  young  man,"  said  he, 
"Your  name  is  Willy  Brennan — you  must  come  along  with  me." 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

As  Brennan's  wife  had  gone  to  town,  provisions  for  to  buy, 
When  she  saw  her  Willy,  she  began  to  weep  and  cry; 
He  says,   "Give  me  that  tenpenny."     As  soon  as  Willy  spoke, 
She  handed  him  a  blunderbuss  from  underneath  her  cloak. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

Then  with  his  loaded  blunderbuss — the  truth  I  will  unfold — 
He  made  the  Mayor  to  tremble,  and  robbed  him  of  his  gold; 
One  hundred  pounds  was  offered  for  his  apprehension  there, 
And  he,  with  his  horse  and  saddle,  to  the  mountain  did  repair. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

Then  Brennan,  being  an  outlaw  upon  the  mountain  high, 
The  cavalry  and  infantry  to  take  him  they  did  try: 
He  laughed  at  them  with  scorn,  until  at  length,  it's  said, 
By  a  false-hearted  woman  he  basely  was  betrayed. 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 


138  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

In  the  County  Tipperary,  at  a  place  they  call  Clonmore, 
Willy  Brennan  and  his  comrade  that  day  did  suffer  sore; 
He  lay  amongst  the  fern,  which  was  thick  upon  the  field, 
And  nine  wounds  he  did  receive  before  that  he  did  yield. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

Then  Brennan  and  his  companion,  when  they  were  betrayed, 
They  with  the  mounted  cavalry  a  noble  battle  made; 
He  lost  his  foremost  finger,  which  was  shot  off  by  a  ball, 
So  Brennan  and  his  comrade  were  taken,  after  all. 

CHORUS. — Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

So  they  were  taken  prisoners,  in  irons  they  were  bound. 
And  conveyed  to  Clonmel  Jail,  strong  walls  did  them  surround. 
They  were  tried  and  found  guilty — the  Judge  made  this  reply: 
"For  robbing  on  the  king's  highway,  you're  both  condemned  to  die. 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 
When  Brennan  heard  his  sentence,  he  made  this  reply: 
"I  own  that  I  did  rob  the  rich,  and  did  the  poor  supply; 
In  all  the  deeds  that  I  have  done  I  took  no  life  away ; 
The  Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul  against  the  judgment  day." 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 
"Farewell   unto   my  wife,    and  to   my   children  three, 
Likewise  my  aged  father — he  may  shed  tears  for  me; 
And  to  my  loving  mother" — who  tore  her  gray  locks  and  cried, 
Saying,  "I  wish,  Willy  Brennan.  in  your  cradle  you  had  died." 

CHORUS.— Brennan  on  the  Moor,  etc. 

BARNEY  O'TOOLE. 

Oh!    be  still,  Barney,  dear,  with  your  jealous  complaints, 
For  you  know  that  your  darling's  as  true  as  the  saints; 
Oh!    you'll  break  the  young  heart  that  you  won  long  ago, 
And  that  would  be  murder,  dear  Barney,  you  know. 
CHORUS. — Oh!    Barney,  Barney,  Barney,  Barney  O'Toole, 

And   taught   her   to   love  you    so,    Barney   O'Toole. 
It's  yourself  that  would  tell  me  a  different  tale, 
With  your  arms  round  my  waist,   in  the  Dargle's  sweet  vale, 
When  your  own  winning  tongue  made  your  Norah  a  fool, 
And  told  her  to  love  you  so,  Barney  O'Toole. 
CHORUS. — Oh!    Barney,  Barney,  Barney,  Barney  O'Toole, 

I'll  be  jealous  of  you,  Mr.   Barney  O'Toole. 
Oh!    you  swore  that  the  wild  rose  which  grew  o'er  my  head, 
And  the  violets  hid  in  its  soft  mossy  bed, 
Where  the  emblems  of  innocence,  beauty,  and  truth, 
And  you  said,  Barney  dear,  I  was  fairer  than  both. 

Oh,  Barney,  etc. 

Am  I  different  now?    that  you're  always  in  doubt, 
With  your  cruel  suspicions  of  what  I'm  about; 
You  had  better  be  careful,  or  by  the  same  rule, 
I'll  be  jealous  of  you,  Mr.  Barney  O'Toole. 

Oh,  Barney,  etc. 

Say  once  more,  Barney,  darling,  the  word  in  my  ear, 
That  the  girl  of  your  heart  is  still  cherish'd  and  dear; 
And  believe  that  your  Norah  is  faithful  and  true, 
For  she  lives  for  you,  Barney,  and  only  for  you. 

Oh,  Barney,  etc. 

BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note. 

As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 
We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning, 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And   the   lantern    dimly   burning. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  139 

No  useless  coffin  confined  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  or  shroud  we  bound  him, 
But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 

With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  heap'd  his  narrow  bed, 

And   smooth'd   down  his  lonely   pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 
But  nothing  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  told  the  hour  for  retiring, 
And  we  heard  by  the  distant  and  random  gun 

That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory, 
We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 

But  we  left  him  alone  in   his  glory. 


THE  GREEN  FLAG. 

Boys!  fill  your  glasses,  each  hour  that  passes 

Steals,  it  may  be,  on  our  last  night's  cheer; 
The  day  soon  shall  come,  boys,  with  fife  and  drum,  boys, 

Breaking  shrilly  on  the  soldier's  ear. 
Drink  to  the  faithful  hearts  that  love  us, 

'Mid  to-morrow's  thickest  fight; 
While  our  green  flag  floats  above  us, 

Think,  boys,   'tis  for  them  we  smite. 
Down  with  each  mean  flag,  none  but  the  green  flag 

Shall  above  us  be  in  triumph  seen; 
Oh!    think  on  its  glory,  long  shrined  in  story, 

Charge  for  Erin  and  her  flag  of  green! 

Think  on  old  Brian,  war's  mighty  lion, 

'Neath  that  banner  'twas  he  smote  the  Dane; 
The  Northman  and  Saxon  oft  turned  their  backs  on 

Those  who  bore  it  o'er  each  crimsoned  plain. 
Beal-an-atha-Buidhe  beheld  it 

Bagenal's  fiery  onset  curb; 
Scotch  Munroe  would  fain  have  felled  it, 

We,  boys,  followed  him  from  red  Belnnburb. 

Charged  with  Eoghan  for  our  flag  of  green! 
Down  with  each  mean  flag,  none  but  the  green  flag 

Shall  above  us  be  in  triumph  seen; 
Oh,  think  on  its  glory,  long  shrined  in  story, 

Charge  with  Eoghan  for  our  flag  of  green! 

And  If  at  eve,  boys,  comrades  shall  grieve,  boys, 

O'er  our  corses,  let  it  be  with  pride; 
When  thinking  that  each,   boys,   on  that  red  beach,  boys, 

Lies  the  flood-mark  of  the  battle's  tide. 
See!    the  first  faint  ray  of  morning 

Gilds  the  east  with  yellow  light! 
Hark!    the  bugle  note  gives  warning — 

One  full  bumper  to  old  friends  to-night. 
Down  with  each  mean  flag,  none  but  the  green  flag 

Shall  above  us  be  in  triumph  seen; 
Oh!  think  on  its  glory,  long  shrined  in  story, 

Fall  or  conquer  for  our  flag  of  green! 


140  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

CLARE'S   DRAGOONS. 

When,    on    Ramillies'    bloody    field. 
The  baffled  French  were  forced  to  yield, 
The    victor    Saxon    backward    reeled 

Before  the  charge  of  Clare's  Dragoons. 
The  flags  we  conquered  in  that  fray 
Look  lone  in  Ypres'  choir,  they  say; 
We'll    win    them   company    to-day, 
Or  bravely  die  like  Clare's  Dragoons. 
Vive  la,  for  Ireland's  wrongs; 
Vive  la,  for  Ireland's  right, 
Vive    la,    in    battle's    throng, 

For  a  Spanish  steel  and  sabre  bright. 
The  brave  old  lord  died  near  the  fight; 
But  for  each  drop  he  lost  that  night, 
A    Saxon    cavalier    shall    bite     ' 

The  dust  before  Lord  Clare's  Dragoons. 
For  never,  when  our  spears  were  set, 
And   never,   when   our   sabres  met, 
Could   we  the    Saxon   soldier   get 
To  stand  the  shock  of  Clare's  Dragoons. 
Vive   la,    the   new   brigade, 
Vive  la,   the  old  one,  too; 
Vive   la,    the   Rose   shall   fade 

And  the  Shamrock  shine  forever  new. 
Another  Clare  is  here  to  lead — 
The  worthy  son  of  such  a  treed; 
The  French  expect  some  famous  deed 

When  Clare  leads  on  his  bold  Dragoons. 
Our  colonel  comes  from  Brien's  race; 
His  wounds  are  in  his  breast  and  face; 
The  bearna  baoghoil  is  still  in  his  place, 
The  foremost  of  his  bold  Dragoons. 

Vive  la,  etc.,  as  2d  verse. 
There's  not  a  man  in  squadron  here. 

Was  ever  known   to  flinch  or  fear; 
Though  first  in  charge  and  last  in  rear 

Have   ever  been   Lord   Clare's  Dragoons. 
But  see,  we'll  soon  have  work  to  do, 
To  shame  our  boasts,  or  prove  them  true, 
For  hither  comes   the   English   crew 
To  sweep  away  Lord  Clare's  Dragoons. 

Vive  la,  etc.,  as  1st  verse. 
O  comrades,  think  how  Ireland  pines, 
Her  exiled   lords,   her  rifled   shrines, 
Her  dearest  hopes,  her  ordered  lines, 

And  bursting  charge  of  Clare's  Dragoons. 
Then  fling  your  green  flag  to  the  sky, 
Be    Limerick    your    battle-cry, 
And  charge  till  blood  flows  fetlock  high. 

Vive  la,  etc.,  as  2d  verse. 


BOWLD  SOJER  BOY. 

Oh,  there's  not  a  trade  that's  going,  worth  showing  or  knowing. 

Like  that  from  glory  growing,  for  a  Bowld  Sojer  Boy; 
Where  right  or  left  we  go,  sure  you  know,   friend  or  foe 

Will  have  the  hand  or  toe  from  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy. 
There's  not  a  town  we  march  thro',  but  ladies,  looking  arch  thro' 

The  window  panes,  will  search  thro'  the  ranks  to  find  their  joy, 
While  up  the  street,  each  girl  you  meet,  with  look  so  sly,  will  cry,  "My 
eye! 

"Oh.  isn't  he  a  darling,  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy!" 

But  when  we  get  the  rout,  how  they  pout  and  they  shout, 
While  to  the  right  about  goes  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy; 

'Tis  then  the  ladies  fair,    in  despair,   tear  their  hair, 
But  the  devil  a  one  I  care,  says  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  141 

For  the  world  is  all  before  us,  where  the  landladies  adore  us, 

And  ne'er  refuse  to  score  us,  but  chalk  us  up  with  joy. 
We  taste  her  tap,  we  tear  her  cap,  "Oh,  that's  the  chap  for  me,"  says 
she, 

"Oh,  isn't  he  a  darling,  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy!" 
Then  come  along  with  me,  gramachree,   and  you'll  see 

How  happy  you  will  be  with  your  Bowld  Sojer  Boy. 
Faith,  if  you're  up  to  fun,  with  me  run,  'twill  be  done 

In  the  snapping  of  a  gun,  says  the  Bowld  Sojer  Boy. 
And  'tis  then  that,  without  scandle,  myself  would  proudly  dandle 

The  little  farthing  candle  of  our  mutual  love  and  joy. 
May  his  light  shine  as  bright  as  mine,  till  In  the  line  he'll  blaae,  and 
raise 

The  glory  of  his  corps,  like  a  Bowld  Sojer  Boy. 


THE  FENIAN  MEN. 

See  who  come  over  the  red-blossomed  heather, 

Their  green  banners   kissing  the  pure   mountain  air, 
Heads   erect,    eyes   to   front,    stepping  proudly   together. 
Sure  Freedom  sits  throned  in  each  proud  spirit  there. 

Down  the  hills  twining, 

Their  blesssd   steel   shining, 
Like  rivers  of  beauty  they  flow  from  each  glen, 

From   mountain    and    valley 

'Tis  Liberty's  rally, 
So  out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men! 

Our  prayers  and  our  tears  have  been  scoffed  and  derided, 
They've  shut  out  God's  sunlight  from  spirit  and  mind — 
Our  Foes  were  united,  and  We  were  divided, 
We  met,  and  they  scattered  us  all  to  the  wind; 

But   once   more   returning, 

Within   our   veins   burning 
The  fires  that  illumined  dark  Aherlow  glen, 

We   raise  the   old   cry  anew, 

Slogan   of   Con  and  Hugh — 
Out,   and  make   way   for  the   Fenian  Men! 
We  have  men  from  the  Nore,  from  the  Suir  and  the  Shannon; 

Let  the  tyrants  come  forth — we'll  bring  force  against  force; 
Our  pen  is  the  sword  and  our  voice  is  the  cannon 
Rifle  for  rifle  and  horse  against  horse. 

We've   made   the   false   Saxon    yield 

Many   a   red   battle-field — 
God  on   our   side,   we  will   do  so  again. 

Pay   them   back  woe  for  woe, 

Give  them  back  blow  for  blow — 
Out,  and  make  way  for  the  Fenian  Men! 
Side  by  side  for  this  cause  have  our  forefathers  battled, 

When  our  hills  never  echoed  the  tread  of  a  slave, 
On  many  green   fields,  where   the  leaden  hail  has  rattled, 
Thro'  the  red  gap  of  glory,   they  marched  to  the  grave. 

And  they  who  inherit 

Their  names  and  their  spirit, 
Will   march    'neath  our   Banters  of   Liberty;    then 

All    who    love    Saxon    law, 

Native   or    Sassenah, 

Out,    and  make   way  for   the   Fenian   Men! 
Up  for  the  cause  then,   fling  forth  our  Green  Banners; 

From  the  East  to  the  West,  from  the  South  to  the  North- 
Irish  land,   Irish   men,   Irish  mirth,   Irish  manners — 
From  the  mansion  and  cot  let  the  slogan  go  forth. 

Sons    of   Old   Ireland,    now, 

Love   you  our   sireland,  now? 
Come  from  the  kirk,   or  the  chapel,  or  glen; 

Down    with   all   Faction   old, 

Concert   and  action   bold. 
This  is  the  creed  of  the  Fenian  Men! 


142  HYLAXD'S    MAMMOTH 

WHEN  MIDST  THE  GAY  I  MEET. 

When  midst  the  gay  I  meet 

That  gentle  smile  of  tnine, 
Tho"   still  on  me   it   turns  most  sweet, 

I   scarce  can  call   it  mine, 
But,   when  to  me  alone 

Your  secret  tears  you  show, 
Oh!  then  I  feel  those  tears  my  own, 

And  claim  them  while  they  flow. 
Then   still  with  bright  look   bless 

The  gay,  the  cold,  the  free; 
Give  smiles  to  those  who  love  you  less, 

But  keep  your  tears  for  me. 


DEAR  OLD  IRELAND. 

Deep  in  Canadian  woods  we've  met, 

From   one   bright  island   flown; 
Great  is  the  land  we  tread,  but  yet 

Our  hearts  are   with   our  own; 
And  ere  we  leave  this  shanty  small, 
While  fades  the  Autumn  day, 
We'll  toast  old   Ireland! 
Dear   old    Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 

We've  heard  her  faults  a  hundred  times. 

The  new  ones  and  the  old, 
In  songs  and  sermons,  rants  and  rhymes, 

Enlarged    some    fifty-fold. 
But  take  them  all,  the  great  and  small, 
And  this  we've  got  to  say: 
Here's  dear  old  Ireland! 
Qood  old  Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 

We  know  that  brave  and  good  men  tried 

To  snap  her  rusty  chain. 
That  patriots  suffered,   martyrs  died, 

And  all,  'tis  said,  in  vain; 
But  no,  boys,  no!    a  glance  will  show 
How  far  they've  won  their  way. 
Here's  good  old  Ireland! 
Lov'd  old  Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 

We've  seen  the  wedding  and  the  wake, 

The  pattern   and  the  fair; 
They  stuff  they  take,  the  fun  they  make, 
And  the  heads  they  break  down  there, 
With  a  loud  "hurroo"  and  a  "phillaloo," 
And  a  thundering  "Clear  the  way." 
Here's  gay  old  Ireland! 
Dear   old    Ireland! 
Ireland, 'boys, 
Hurrah! 

And  well  we  know,  In  the  cool  grey  eves, 

When  the  hard  day's  work  is  o'er, 
How  soft  and  sweet  are  the  words  that  greet 

The  friends  who  meet  once  more, 
With  "Mary  Machree!"  and  "My  Pat,  'tis  he!' 
And  "My  own  heart  night  and  day!" 
Ah,  fond  old  Ireland! 
Dear   old    Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  143 

And  happy  and  bright  are  the  groups  that  pass 

For  their  peaceful   homes  for  miles. 
O'er  fields  and  roads  and  hills  to  mass, 

When   Sunday  morning  smiles; 
And  deep  the  zeal  their  true  hearts  feel, 
When  low  they  kneel  and  pray; 
Oh,   dear   old   Ireland! 
Blest  old   Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 

But  deep  in  Canadian  woods  we've  met, 

And  never  may  see  again 
The  dear  old  isle  where  our  hearts  are  set. 

And  our  first  fond  hopes  remain! 
But  come,   fill  up  another  cup, 
And  with  every  sup  let's  say — 
Here's  lov'd  old  Ireland! 
Good  old  Ireland! 
Ireland,  boys, 
Hurrah! 


0,  SONS  OF  ERIN. 

O,   sons  of  Erin,   brave  and  strong, 

Upon  your  prostrate  mother  gaze; 
Her  sorrows  have  been  overlong, 

'Tis  time  her  beauteous  face  to  raise. 
When  tyranny  usurps  the  right, 

And  chivalry  pines  in  the  jail, 
There's  deep  revenge  in  Freedom's  fight — 

'Tis  life  to  win,  'tis  death  to  fall! 

The  power  of  monarchy  is  steel, 

And  crushing,  soul-subduing  laws, 
Whose  weight  alone  the  toilers  feel, 

And  murmur  oft,  and  know  the  cause. 
And  battle  oft  the  despot's  might, 

And  scorning  torture  and  the  jail, 
Seek  swift  revenge  in  Freedom's  fight — 

'Tis  life  to  win,  'tis  death  to  fail! 

Wild— wild's  the  night  e'er  freedom's  sun 

Lights  up  the  ramparts  of  the  free; 
It  rolls  away,  the  battle's  won, 

And  sounds  a  glorious  reveille — 
A  reveille  of  hearts  full  light, 

Uncrushed  by  slavery  and  the  jail, 
It  echoed  down  the  Alpine  height, 

'Twill  glad  the  hills  of  Innisfail! 


I  WOULD  NOT  DIE. 

I  would  not  die  in  this  bright  hour, 

While  Hope's  sweet  stream   is  flowing; 
I   would   not  die   while   Youth's   gay   flower 

In  springtide  pride  is  glowing. 
The  path  I  trace  in  fiery  dreams 

For    manhood's    flight,    to-morrow, 
Oh,    let  me   tread,    'mid  those   bright  gleams 

Which   souls  from   Fame  will   borrow. 
I  would  not  die!    I  would  not  die! 

In   Youth's  bright  hour  of  pleasure; 
I   would    not    leave,   without   a   sigh, 

The  dreams,  the  hopes,  I  treasure! 


144  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

I   set  young   seeds  in    earth   to-day, 

While  yet  the  sun  was  gushing. 
And   shall   I   pass,    ere  these,    away, 

Nor   see   the   flowerets  blushing? 
Are  these   young  seeds,    when  earth   looks  fair, 

To  rise   with   fragrance   teeming. 
And  shall  the  hand  that  placed  them  there 

Lie  cold  when  they  are  gleaming? 
I  would  not  die!    I  would  not  die! 

In  Youth's  bright  hour  of  pleasure; 
I   would   not   leave,   without  a  sigh, 

The  dreams,  the  hopes,   I  treasure! 


GARRYOWEN. 

Let   Bacchus'   sons   be  not   dismayed, 
But  join  with  me  each  jovial  blade; 
Come  booze  and  sing,  and  lend  your  aid 

To  help  me  with  the  chorus: 
CHORUS.— Instead  of  Spa  we'll  drink  brown  ale, 
And  pay  the  reckoning  on  the  nail; 
No  man  for  debt  shall  go  to  a  gaol, 

From  Garryowen  in  glory! 
We  are  the  boys  that  take  delight  in 
Smashing  the  Limerick  lights  when  lighting, 
Through  the  streets  like  sporters  fighting, 

And  tearing  all  before  us. 

Instead,   etc. 

We'll  break  windows,  we'll  break  doors, 
The  watch  knock  down  by  threes  and  fours; 
Then  let  the  doctors  work  their  cures, 

And  tinker  up  our  bruises. 

Instead,  etc. 

We'll  beat  the  bailiffs  out  of  fun, 
We'll  make  the  mayor  and  sheriffs  run; 
We  are  the  boys  no  man  dares  dun, 

If  he  regards  a  whole  skin. 

Instead,   etc. 

Our  hearts   so  stout  have  got  us   fame, 
For  soon  'tis  known  from  whence  we  came; 
Where'er  we  go  they  dread  the  name 

Of   Garryowen  in  glory. 

Instead,  etc. 

Johnny  Cornell's  tall  and  straight, 
And  in  his  limbs  he  is  complate; 
He'll  pitch  a  bar  of  any  weight 

From  Garryowen  to  Thomond  Gate. 

Instead,   etc. 

Garryowen  is  gone  to  wrack 
Since  Johnny  Connell  went  to  Cork, 
Though  Darby  O'Brien  leapt  over  the  rock, 

In  spite  of  all  the  soldiers. 

Instead,   etc. 

"GOD  SAVE  IRELAND!" 

High  upon  the  gallows  tree, 

Swung  the   noble-hearted   three, 
By  the  vengeful  tyrant  stricken  in  their  bloom; 

But  they  met  him  face  to  face, 

With  the  courage  of  their  race, 
And  they  went  with  souls  undaunted  to  their  doom. 

"God  save  Ireland!"   said  the  heroes; 

"God  save  Ireland!"  said  they  all; 

"Whether  on  the  scaffold  high, 

Or  the   battle-field   we  die, 
Oh,  what  matter,  when  for  Erin  dear  we  fall?" 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  145 

Girt  around  with  cruel  foes, 

Still  the  spirit  proudly  rose, 
For  they  thought  of  hearts  that  loved  them,  far  and  near, 

Of  the  millions,  true  and  brave, 

O'er  the  ocean's  swelling  wave, 
And  the  friends  in  holy  Ireland  ever  dear. 

"God  save  Ireland!"  said  they  proudly; 

"God  save  Ireland!"  said  they  all; 

"Whether  on  the  scaffold  high,"  etc. 

Climbed  they  up  the  rugged  stair, 

Rung  their  voices  out  in  prayer; 
Then,  with  England's  fatal  cord  around  them  cast, 

Close  beneath  the   gallows  tree, 

Kissed  like  brothers  lovingly, 
True  to  home  and  faith  and  freedom  to  the  last. 

"God  save  Ireland!"  prayed  they  loudly; 

"God  save  Ireland!"  said  they  all; 

"Whether  on  the  scaffold  high,"  etc. 

Never  till  the  latest  day 

Shall  the  memory  pass  away 
Of  the  gallant  lives  thus  given  for  our  land; 

But  on  the  cause  must  go, 

Amidst  joy,  or  weal,  or  woe, 
Till  we've  made  our  isle  a  nation  free  and  grand. 

"God  save  Ireland!"  say  we  proudly; 

"God  save  Ireland!"  say  we  all; 

"Whether  on  the  scaffold  high,"  etc. 

EMMETT. 

Though  the  minstrel  of  Erin,  who  chanted  his  fame. 
Hath  said  of  her  martyr,  "Oh!    breathe  not  his  name!" 
Yet  what  bard  of  lerne  the  wild  harp  could  wake. 
And  forget  the  young  hero  who  died  for  her  sake? 

Though  the  page  of  her  history  holds  to  our  view 
Many  names  of  the  valiant,  the  fearless,  the  true, 
Yet   sad   memory   turns   away    to    recall 
The  brightest,  the  noblest,  the  purest  of  all. 

Oh,  his  was  the  heart  that  to  fear  was  unknown, 
When  the  loud  trump  of  Freedom  through  Erin  was  blown; 
How  far  calmer  his  fetterless  sleep  in  the  grave 
Than  the  clink  of  the  chains  on  the  limbs  of  a  slave! 

Though  Columbia's  first  chieftain,  and  Brutus,  and  Tell, 
Are  names  to   awaken  bright   Liberty's  spell, 
Yet  undimmed  by  its  lustre  should  cloudless  be  seen 
The  Patriot  Chief  of  the  Standard  of  Green. 

And  when  the  proud  Sunburst  of  Erin,  unfurled, 
Proclaiming  her  free,  shall  illumine  the  world, 
Emblazoned  shall  be  on  its  folds,  waving  wide, 
The  name  of  our  hero,  her  martyr,  her  pride. 


IRELAND. 

Erin,  sweet  Erin!  the  halo  of  glory 

That  hangs  on  the  brow  of  thy  every  green  hill, 
As  it  falls  on  the  page  of  thy  fame-written  story, 

Reflects  a  warm  glow  on  thy  loveliness  still. 
Oh,   well   may   thy   children   to   madnes   adore   thee; 

Thy   bards   to   recount  thy   rich   beauties,    despair — 
When  there  is  not  a  star  that  at  midnight  shines  o'er  thee 

But  twinkles  with  joy  to  stand  sentinel  there. 

Oh.  who  that  has  heard  the  loud  wail  of  thy  sorrow, 
But  yearns,  to  the  mourner,  some  balm  to  impart? 

Oh.  who  that  has  shared  thy  wild  mirth  but  would  borrow 
The  charm  that  can  kindle  such  joy  to  the  heart? 


146  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

And  for  music!    oh,  who  that  has  once  heard  the  numbers 
Set  free  to  the  winds  by  the  magic  of  Moore. 

But  exults  that  the  spell  which  encircled  its  slumbers, 
And  chilled  the  sweet  Harp  of  his  country,  is  o'er? 

If  it  be  but  a  fable  that,  far  in  thy  mountains, 

Deep   hidden   by  fairies   lie  treasures   untold— 
Oh,   'tis  but  to  appeal  to  thy  heart's  open  fountain, 

To    find   them   o'erflown   with — better   than   gold! 
Land  of  brave  sons  and  of  light-hearted  daughters, 

Smooth  may  the  stream  of  thy  destiny  be! 
"First  flower"  mayst  thou  bloom  on  the  breast  of  the  waters, 

"First  gem"  mayst  thou  shine  on  the  home  of  the  sea! 


THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  IRELAND. 

A  plenteous  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer, 

Uileacan   dubh  O! 
Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow  barley-ear; 

Uileacan   dubh  O! 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees  where  her  misty  vales  expand, 
And  her  forest  paths,  in  summer,  are  by  falling  waters  fanned; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i'  the  yellow  sand, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 
Curled  he  is  and  ringletted,  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacan   dubh   O! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  sea, 

Uileacan   dabh  O! 

And  I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand. 
Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand, 
And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and  high  command, 

For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 
Large  and   profitable  are   the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 

Uileacan   dubh   O! 
The  butter  and  cream  do  wondrously  abound, 

Uileacan   dubh   O! 

The  cresses  on  the  water  and  the  sorrels  are  at  hand, 
And  the  cuckoo's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland. 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  to  the  forests  grand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


ERIN'S   LOVELY  HOME. 

When  I  was  young  and  in  my  prime,   my  age  just  twenty-one, 

I  acted  as  a  servant  unto  a  gentleman; 

I  served  him  true  and  honest,  and  very  well,  it's  known, 

But  in  cruelty  he  banished  me  from  Erin's  Lovely  Home. 

For  what  he  did  banish  me  I  mean  to  let  you  hear: 

I  own  I  loved  his  daughter,  and  she  loved  me  as  dear, 

She  had  a  large  fortune,  and  riches  I  had  none, 

And  that  the  reason  I  must  go  from  Erin's  lovely  Home. 

'Twas  in  her  father's  garden,  all  in  the  month  of  June, 

We  were  viewing  of  those  flowers  all  in  their  youthful  bloom; 

She  said,  "My  dearest  William,  if  with  me  you  will  roam, 

We'll  bid  adieu   to  all  our  friends,   in   Erin's   Lovely  Home." 

I  gave  consent  that  very  night  along  with  her  to  roam 

From  her   father's  dwelling — it  proved   my  overthrow; 

The  night  was  bright;    by  the  moonlight  we  both  set  off  alone, 

Thinking  to  get  safe  away  from  Erin's  Lovely  Home. 

When   we  came  to  Belfast,  by  the  break  of  day. 

My  love,  she  then  got  ready  our  passage  for  to  pay; 

Five  thousand  pounds  she  counted  down,  saying,  "This  shall  be  your 

own, 

But  do  not  mourn  for  those  we've  left  in  Erin's  Lovely  Home." 
"Tis  of  our  sad  misfortune  I  mean  to  let  you  hear; 
'Twas  in  a  few  hours  after,  her  father  did  appear; 
He  marched  me  back  to  Homer  jail,  in  the  county  of  Tyrone, 
And  there  I  was  transported  from  Erin's  Lovely  Home. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  147 

When  I  heard  my  sentence,  it  grieved  my  heart  full  sore. 
But  parting  from  my  true  love  it  grieved  me  ten  times  more. 
I  had  seven  links  upon  my  chain,  for  every  link  a  year, 
Before  I  can  return  again  to  the  arms  of  my  dear. 

While  I  lay  under  sentence,  before  I  sailed  away, 
My  love,  she  came  into  the  jail,  and  thus  to  me  did  say: 
"Cheer  up  your  heart,  don't  be  dismayed,  for  I'll  not  you  disown, 
Until  you  do  return  again  to  Erin's  Lovely  Home." 


FORTUNE  IN  THE  FIKE. 

Sweet  Norah,  come  here,  and  look  into  the  fire, 

Perhaps  in  its  embers  good  luck  we  may  see; 
Don't  come  too  near,  or  your  glances  so  burning. 

Will  put  it  clean  out,   like  the  sunbeams,  machree. 
Just  look  'tween  the  bars,  where  the  black  sod  is  smoking; 

There's  a  sweet  little  valley,  with  rivers  and  trees, 
And  a  house  on  the  bank  quite  as  good  as  the  squire's — 

Who   knows   but  some   day   we'll    have  something   like  these? 

Who  knows  but  some  day   we'll   have  something  like  these? 

And  now  there's  a  coach  with  four  galloping  horses, 

A  coachman  to  drive,  and  a  footman  behind, 
That  shows  that  some  day  we  will  keep  a  fine  carriage, 

And  fly  through  the  street  at  the  speed  of  the  wind. 
As  Dermot  was  speaking,  the  rain-drops  came  hissing 

Down  thro"  the  wide  chimney,  the  fire  went  out; 
While  mansion  and  river,  and  horses  and  carriage, 

All  vanished  in  smoke-wreaths  that  whirl'd  about, 

All   vanished  in  smoke-wreaths  that  whirl'd  about. 
Then  Norah  to  Dermot  this  speech  softly  whispered: 

'  'Twere  better  to  do  than  to  idly  desire; 
And  one  little  cot  by  the  roadside  is  better 

Than  a  palace  with  servants  and  coach  in  the  fire, 

Than  a  palace  with  servants  and  coach  in  the  fire." 


MOTHER,   HE'S  GOING  AWAY. 

Mother.— Now,  what  are  you  crying  for  Nelly? 

Don't  be  blubberin'  there  like  a  fool! — 
With  the  weight  o'  the  grief,  faith  I  tell  you, 

You'll  break  down  the  three-legged  stool. 
I  suppose,  now,  you're  crying  for  Barney, 
But  don't  b'lieve  a  word  that  he'd  say, 
He  tells  nothin'  but  big  lies  and  blarney — 

Sure  you  know  how  he  sarved  poor  Kate  Kearney- 
Daughter. — But,  mother 

Mother.— Oh,  bother! 

Daughter. — But,    mother,    he's    going    away; 
And  I  dreamt  th"  other  night, 
Of  his  ghost,  all  in  white — 
Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away! 
Mother. — If  he's  goin'*  away,  all  the  betther — 

Bless'd'hour  when  he's  out  of  your  sight! 
There's  one  comfort — you  can't  get  a  letther, — 

For  yiz  neither  can  read  or  can  write. 
Sure,  'twas  only  last  week  you  protested, 

Since  he  coorted  fat  Jinny  M'Cray, 
That  the  sight  of  the  scamp  you  detested; 

With  abuse,  sure,  your  tongue  never  rested 

Daughter. — But,   mother 

Mother.— Oh,  bother! 

Daughter.— But,  mother,  he's  going  away, 
And  I  dream  of  his  ghost 
Walking   round   my   bedpost — 
Oh,  mother,  he's  going  away! 


148  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

QUID   IRELAND!    YOU'RE    MY   DARIIN'. 

Quid  Ireland!    you're  my  jewel,   sure, 

My  heart's  delight  and  glory; 
Till   time  shall  pass  his   empty  glass, 

Your   name   shall   live   in    story. 
And    this    shall    be    the    song    for    m». 

The  first   my  heart  was   larnin', 
Before  my  tongue  one  accent  sung 

"Quid  Ireland!    you're  my  darlin'. !" 
My  blessings  on  each  manly  son 

Of  thine  who  will  stand  by  thee; 
But  hang  the   knave   and   dastard   slave 

So   base   as   to   deny  thee; 
Then  bould  and  free,  while  yet  for  me 

The  globe  is  round  us  whirlin', 
My  song  shall  be,   "Gra  Galmachree, 

Ould   Ireland!    you're   my   darlin'!" 
Sweet  spot  of  earth  that  gave  me  birth, 

Deep  in  my  soul  I  cherish 
While   life   remains   within  these  veins, 

A  love  that  ne'er  can  perish. 
If  it  was  a  thing  that  I  could  sing, 

Like  any  thrush  or  starlin', 
In   cage  or   tree,   my  song  should  be, 

"Ould  Ireland!     you're  my  darlin'.!" 

LIMERICK   RACES. 

I'm  a  simple  Irish  lad,  I've  resolved  to  see  some  fun,  sirs; 
So,  to  satisfy  my  mind,  to  Limerick  town  I  come,  sirs; 
Oh,  murther!    what  a  precious  place,  and  what  a  charming  city, 
Where  the  boys  are  all  so  free,  and  the  girls  are  all  so  pretty! 
CHORUS. — Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da, 

Ri  too  ral  laddy  Oh! 
Musha    ring    a   ding    a    da, 

Ri  too  ral  laddy  Oh! 

It  was  on  the  first  of  May,  when  I  began  my  rambles, 
When  everything  was  there,  both  jaunting  cars  and  gambols; 
I  looked  along  the  road,  what  was  lined  with  smiling  faces, 
All  driving  off  ding-dong,  to  go  and  see  the  races. 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 

So  then  I  was  resolved  to  go  and  see  the  race,  sirs, 
And  on  a  coach  and  four  I  neatly  took  my  place,  sirs, 
When  a  chap  bawls  out  "Behind!"  and  the  coachman  dealt  a  blow,  sirs; 
Faith,  he  hit  me  just  as  fair  as  if  his  eyes  were  in  his  poll,  sirs. 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 

So  then  I  had  to  walk,  and  make  no  great  delay,  sirs, 
Until  I  reached  the  course,  where  everything  was  gay,  sirs; 
It's  then  I  spied  a  wooden  house,  and  in  the  upper  story, 
The  band  struck  up  a  tune,  called  "Garryowen  and  Glory." 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 

There  was  fiddlers  playing  jigs,  there  was  lads  and  lassies  dancing, 
And  chaps  upon  their  nags,  round  the  course  sure  they  were  prancing, 
Some  was  drinking  whiskey-punch,  while  others  bawl'd  out  gaily, 
"Hurrah  then  for  the  shamrock  green,  and  the  splinter  of  shillelah." 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 

There  were  betters  to  and  fro,  to  see  who  would  win  the  race,  sirs, 
And  one  of  the  sporting  chaps  of  course  came  up  to  me,  sirs; 
Says  he,  "I'll  bet  you  fifty  pounds,  and  I'll  put  it  down  this  minute." 
"Ah,  then,  ten  to  one,"  says  I,  "the  foremost  horse  will  win  it." 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 

When  the  players  came  to  town,  and  a  funny  set  was  they, 
I  paid  my  two   thirteens  to  go  and  see  the  play, 
They  acted  kings  and  cobblers,  queens,  and  everything  so  gaily, 
But  I  found  myself  at  home  when  they  struck  up  "Paddy  Carey." 

Musha  ring  a  ding  a  da,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 


149 


LET  ERIN  REMEMBER  THE  DAYS  OF  OLD. 


Crmtf  and  Spirited. 


s 


•    rin     "n  -  mem-ber     the  days  of       old,     Ere    her   faith  -  lees  aon§    l« 


tray'd  her ;  When  Msl-a  -  obi  wore  the     col-lar  of  gold,  Which  he  won  from  the  proud  iavad -cr; 


Si 


When  her     Kings  with  stan-dardsof        green    uu-furl'd,  Led    the     Red  Branch  Knights  to 


dan-ger,    Ere  the  em-erald  gem  of   the  wes-tern  world  Was  set    in    the  crown  of     a     stranger. 

2 

On  Lough  Neagh'sbank  as  the  fisherman  strays,. 

When  the  clear  cold  eve's  declining, 
lie  sees  the  round  towers  of  other  days, 

In  the  wave  beneath  him  shining ; 

Thus  shall  memory  often,  To  dreams  stfblime. 

Catch  a  glimpse  of  the  days  that  are  over  ; 
Thus  sighing,  look  through  the  waves  of  time, 

For  the  long  faded  glories  they  cover. 


ERIN!   THE  TEAR  AND  THE  SMILE  IN  THINE  EYES. 

Slaw. 


£  •   rin  the     tear    and  the  smile  in    thine  eye»,        Blend  like  the  rain  -  bow  that 


hangs  in      .the    skies  ; 


Shin  -  ing     thro'  sor-  row's  stream,  Snuu  ning  thro1  pleasure's  beam. 


Thy      cons,     with          doubt   -   ful      gleam,     Weep  while   they          rise  I 

Erin !  thy  silent  tear  never  shall  cease, 
Erin !  thy  languid  smile  ne'er  shall  increase, 
Till,  like  the  rainbow's  light, 
Thy  various  tints  unite, 
And  form  in  heaven's  sight, 
One  arch  of  peace  1 


150  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

IRELAND  WILL  YET  BE  FREE. 

Let  tyrants  exult,  and  their  mandates  proclaim, 

Their  sceptres  with   iron   hands  sway; 
Oppression  the  Irish  heart  never  can  tame, 

Nor  drive  hope  of  freedom  away. 
The  yoke  may  be  heavy  and  firm  in  its  place, 

The  fetters  secure  all  may  be; 
But  blood  will  wash  out  this  most  shameful  disgrace, 

And  Ireland  ere  long  shall   be  free. 
The  day  may  be  distant— perhaps  it  is  near, 

When  freedom  shall  dawn  on  our  land. 
When  Ireland  no   longer  a   tyrant  need   fear, 

Her  rights  she  will  seek  and  demand. 
Her  fields,  now  deserted,  shall  blossom  once  more, 

Her  ships  will  skim  over  the  sea; 
The  hirelings  of  England  be  hurled  from  our  shore, 

And  Ireland  will  truly  be  free. 
Then  toast  our  fair  Island,  my  countrymen  all, 

"Success  to  her  struggle  so  nigh;" 
Her  sons  will  spring  forth  at  the  first  trumpet  call, 

And   battle   for  freedom,   or  die! 
Then  when  we  have  conquered  and  peace  smiles  again, 

Let  this  our  grand   toast  ever  be: 
"Confusion   to  tyrants,  wherever  they  reign," 

And  Ireland  shall  ever  be  free! 


IRISH  HEARTS  FOR  THE  LADIES. 

One  day  Madam  Nature  was  busy, 

Bright  Venus  beside  her  was  seated, 
She   looked   till   her  head   was   quite  dizzy, 

She    long'd    till    the   job   was    completed; 
I'm  making  a  heart,   cried  the  goddess, 

For  love  and  its  joys  all  my  trade  is, 
Not  a  heart  for  a  stays  or  a  bodice, 

But  an  Irishman's  heart  for  the  ladies. 

She  bound   it  all   round  with  good  nature; 

'Twas  tender  and  soft  as  the  dove,  sir; 
'Twas   sprinkled   with  drops  of  the  creature; 

'Twas  stuffed,  too,  with  large  lumps  of  love,  sir. 
'Twas  pure  as  the  stream  of  the  Shannon, 

As   warm,   too,   as   roasted   potatoes, 
And  just  like  a  ball  from  a  cannon 

Is   an   Irishman's   heart   for   the   ladies. 

Then  speak,  ye  deluders,   so  pretty, 

Your    own   silver   tongues   tell   the   story, 
That    Irishmen    melt   you    to    pity. 

For  they  are  the  boys  that  adore  ye; 
In    love  and   in   war   we're   so   frisky, 

Nor  of  French,  Dutch,  or  Yankee,  afraid  is; 
We've  lips  for  our  girls  and  our  whiskey, 

And   tight   Irish   hearts   for   the   ladies. 


OUR  MOTHERLAND. 

There  is  an  island  in  the  sea, 

'Tis   Motherland — our   Motherland; 
Land  of  the  brave,  though  not  yet  free, 

'Tis   Motherland — our   Motherland; 
And  by  our  knighthood,  now  we  swear, 
It  shall  not  long  its  bondage  bear, 
For  we  are  bound  the  cords  to  tear 
From  Motherland — dear  Motherland! 

With  heart  and  hand  in  Erin's  cause, 
Motherland — our  Motherland, 

We'll  trample  down  the  tyrant's  laws 
In  Motherland— our  Motherland; 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER.  151 

And  then,   "A  Nation  once  again!" 
Shall  be  our  knighthood's  proud  refrain, 
For   we  shall   wipe   Oppression's   stain 

From  Motherland— dear  Motherland! 
"And   shall  our  tyrants  safely  reign" 

O'er  Motherland — our  Motherland, 
"On  thrones  built  up  of  slaves  and  slain" 

In   Motherland — our  Motherland? 
"No!    'round  this  board  our  oath  we  plight 
To  watch,  and  labor,  and  unite, 
Till  banded  be  the  nation's  might" 

For  Motherland— dear  Motherland! 
Oh,  how  our  hearts  would  leap  for  joy, 

Motherland — our   Motherland, 
For  one  such  day  as  Fontenoy, 

In    Motherland— our   Motherland! 
And  grant,  O  Lord,   it  soon  may  come, 
When,   crossing  o'er  the  ocean's  foam, 
We  freedom  claim  for  every  home 

In  Motherland — dear  Motherland! 
We  vow  thy  brilliant  "Flag  of  Green," 

Motherland — dear   Motherland, 
Yet  proudly  floating  shall  be  seen 

O'er    Motherland — dear    Motherland; 
And  then  a  freeman,  bold  and  brave, 
Shall  'scribe  the  lines  on  Emmett's  grave, 
Which  were  not  to  be  found  by  a  slave, 

In  Motherland — dear  Motherland! 
We  once  again  renew  our  vow 

To  Motherland — dear  Motherland, 
To  be  as  firm  and  true  as  now 

To    Motherland — dear    Motherland, 
"The  Harp  of  Tara"  is  not  dead — 
It  soul-felt  music  yet  shall  shed; 
"We'll  plant  the  Green  above  the  Red," 

In    Motherland — dear   Motherland! 


MY  DARK-HAIRED  GIRL. 

My  dark-haired  girl,  thy  ringlets  deck, 

In  silken  curl,  thy  graceful  neck; 

Thy  neck  is  like  the  swan,  and  fair  as  the  pearl, 

And  light  as  air  the  step  is  of  my  dark-haired  girl. 

My  dark-haired  girl,  upon  thy  lip 

The  dainty  bee  might  wish  to  sip; 

Fo-  thy  lip  it  is  the  rose,  and  thy  teeth  they  are  pearl, 

And  diamond  is  the  eye  of  my  dark-haired  girl! 

My  dark-haired  girl,  I've  promised  thee, 

And  thou  thy  faith  hast  given  me, 

And  oh,  I  would  not  change  for  the  crown  of  an  earl 

The  pride  of  being  loved  by  my  dark-haired  girl. 


MOLLY,   0! 


She's  plain  Molly,  O,  simple  and  sweet; 
My  heart  is  gone,  I  lay  me  at  her  feet; 
So  light  her  tread,  so  fond  her  gaze, 
Who  would  not  love  my  Molly  dear? 
Clouds  are  but  sunshine,  skies  ever  clear, 
Happy  am  I,  lads,  when  Molly  is  near; 
Heart's  fondest  echo,  love's  sweet  refrain, 
Still  call  me  back  to  my  Molly  again. 
CHORUS.— She's  plain  Molly,  O,  simple  and  sweet; 

She's  plain  Molly,  O — her  heart  is  love's  retreat; 

She's  plain  Molly,  O,  lovely,  divine; 

Oh,  would  that  I  could  call  Molly  mine. 


152  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Brave  soldiers  may  war,  heroes  may  die, 
With  Molly,  dear,  the  world  I  would  defy. 
Tender  her  heart,  loving  and  true, 
Flowers  of  the  valley  call  her  queen. 
So  like  the  lily,  so  like  the  rose, 
Her  laugh's  like  the  sunshine  to  nature's  repose; 
Her  eyes  are  jewels,  more  rich  and  bright 
Than  those  in  heaven  that  sparkle  at  night. 

She's  plain  Molly,  O,  etc. 

SWEET  HAKP. 

Oh,  give  me  one  strain 

Of  that  wild  harp  again, 

In  melody  proudly  its  own! 

Sweet  harp  of  the  days  that  are  gone! 

Time's  wide-wasting  wing 

Its  cold  shadow  may  fling 

Where  the  light  of  the  soul  hath  no  part; 
The  sceptre  and  sword 
Both  decay  with  their  lord — 

But  the  throne  of  the  bard  is  the  heart. 
And  hearts,  while  they  beat 
To  the  music  so  sweet, 
Thy  glories  will  ever  prolong, 
Land  of  honor  and  beauty  and  song! 
The  beauty  whose  sway 
Woke  the  bard's  votive  lay, 

Hath  gone  to  eternity's  shade, 
While,  fresh  in  its  fame, 
iiives  the  song  to  her  name, 

Which  the  minstrel  immortal  hath  made! 


MY   LITTLE  IRISH   QUEEN. 

My  home  is  in  the  country,  not  many  miles  away; 

'Tis  where  I  go  in  summer  to  pass  the  time  away; 

There  is  a  little  girl,  bright  as  the  stars  above, 

Just  as  the  sun  goes  down,  then  I  go  and  meet  my  love,  oh ! 

REFRAIN.— 

She's  young,  yes  and  beautiful — she's  the  fairest  ever  seen ; 

She  may  not  dress  like  city  folks,  she's  my  little  Irish  queen. 
We  do  not  care  for  riches  to  make  our  lives  complete; 
A  little  cottage  down  the  lane,  all  furnished  clean  and  neat; 
A  garden  filled  with  flow'rs — blue,  yellow,  red  and  green; 
But  the  fairest  one  of  all  is  my  little  Irish  queen,  oh! 

She's  young,  yes,  etc. 

THE  IRISH  EXILE'S   LOVE. 

With  pensive  eyes  she  passed  the  church. 

And  up  the  leafy  woodland  came, 
Until  she  reached  the  silver  birch 

Where  long  ago  he  carved  her  name. 
And  oh!  she  sighed  as  soft  she  kissed, 

With  loving  lips,  that  gentle  tree. 
"Alore,  alone,  I  keep  the  tryst; 

Return  to  Ireland,  love,  and  me. 
Return,  Columbia's  realm  afar, 

Where  year  by  year  your  feet  delay, 
We  cannot  match  for  moon  or  star, 

By  silver  night  or  golden  day. 
Her  birds  are  brighter  far  of  wing, 

A  richer  lustre  lights  her  flow'rs; 
Yet  still  they  say  no  bird  can  sing, 

Or  blossom  breathe  as  sweet  as  ours. 
Return!  her  levin  flashes  dire 

Affright  not  here. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  153 

We  never  know  her  awful,  rushing  prairie  fire, 

The  silent  horror  of  her  snow. 
Return!  her  heart  is  wise  and  bold, 

Her  borders  beautiful  and  free; 
Yet  still  the  New  is  not  the  Old, 

Return  to  Ireland,  love,  and  me. 


BKIDGET   DONAHUE. 

It  was  in  the  county  Kerry,  a  little  way  from  Clare, 
Where  the  boys  and  girls  are  merry  at  a  patron  race  or  fair; 
The  town  is  called  Kellorglin,  a  purty  place  to  view, 
But  what  makes  it  interesting  is  my  Bridget  Donahue. 

CHORUS.— Oh,  Bridget  Donahue,  I  really  do  love  you, 

Although  I'm  in  America  to  you  I  will  be  true; 
Then,  Bridget  Donahue,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do, 
Just  take  the  name  of  Patterson  and  I'll  take  Donahue. 

Her  father  is  a  farmer,  and  a  dasent  man  is  he, 

He's  liked  by  all  the  people  from  Kellorglin  to  Tralee; 

And  Bridget  on  a  Sunday,  when  coming  home  from  mass, 

She's  admired  by  all  the  people,  sure  they  wait  to  see  her  pass. 

Oh,  Bridget  Donahue,  etc 

I  sent  her  home  a  picture,  I  did  upon  my  word, 

Not  a  picture  of  myself,  but  a  picture  of  a  bird; 

It  was  the  American  Eagle,  and  says  I,  Miss  Donahue, 

Our  Eagles'  wings  are  large  enough  to  shelter  me  and  you. 

Oh,  Bridget  Donahue,  eu- 

CONNOR,   THE   FISHERMAN. 

My  Connor  is  a  fisher  bold — he  likes  the  life  so  free — 
The  roaring  of  the  wintry  winds — the  lashing  of  the  sea; 
His  home  is  on  the  noisy  waves,  and  once  I  am  his  bride, 
O!  trust  me,  I'll  be  bold  enough  to  tempt  them  by  his  side. 
My  Connor  hath  a  fairy  bark  on  summer  seas  to  skim; 
He  tells  me  in  the  summer  time  that  I  shall  sail  with  him. 
He  thinks  I  have  a  coward  heart,  as  if  one  need  be  brave 
To  dare  the  tempest  any  night,  and  Connor  there  to  save. 
My  Connor  hath  a  warrior's  soul,  but,  in  this  age  of  slaves, 
Perhaps  he  finds  his  fittest  life  in  warring  with  the  waves; 
And  never  blew  the  tempest  yet  that  Connor's  spirit  bowed; 
His  eye  would  meet  the  lightning's  flash  as  kingly  and  as  proud. 
My  Connor  hath  a  tender  heart,  for  all  his  stormy  life; 
There  never  breaks  a  word  from  him  of  sullenness  or  strife; 
His  war  is  with  the  braggart  waves,  and  once  I  am  his  bride, 
O!  trust  me,  I'll  be  bold  enough  to  tempt  them  by  his  side! 

THE    PEASANT'S    BRIDE. 

I  was  a  simple  country  girl  that  lov'd  the  morning  dearly; 

My  only  wealth  a  precious  pearl  I  found  one  morning  early. 

I  milked  my  mother's  only  cow,  my  kind,  poor  lovin'  Drimln; 

I  never  envied  then  nor  now  the  kine  of  richer  women. 

The  sun  shone  out  in  bonny  June,  and  fragrant  were  the  meadows; 

A  voice  as  sweet  as  an  Irish  tune  (I  know  it  was  my  Thady's) 

Said,    "Mary  dear,   I  fain   would  stay,   but  Where's  the  use  repining? 

I  must  away  to  save  my  hay  now  while  the  sun  is  shining." 

Now  Thady  was  as  stout  a  blade  as  ever  stood  in  leather, 

With  hook  or  scythe,  with  plow  or  spade,  he'd  beat  ten  men  together; 

He's  just  the  man,  thought  I,  for  me,  he  is  working  late  and  early, 

He  shall  be  mine  if  he  is  free,  he  takes  my  fancy  fairly. 

I  gave  my  hand,  though  I  was  young,  and  heart,  too,  like  a  feather, 

Our  marriage  song  by  the  lark  was  sung  when  we  were  wed  together; 

And  many  a  noble  lord,  I'm  told,   and  many  a  noble  lady, 

Would  gladly  give  a  crown  of  gold  to  be  like  me  and  Thady. 


154  HIBERNIAN   SONGSTER. 

THE  GREEN  ABOVE  THE  EED. 

Full  often  when  our  fathers  saw  the  red  above  the  green, 
They  rose  in  rude  but  fierce  array,  with  saber,  pike  and  skian, 
And  over  many  a  noble  town,  and  many  a  field  of  dead, 
They  proudly  set  the  Irish  green  above  the  English  red. 

But  in  the  end,  throughout  the  land,  the  shameful  sight  was  seen — 
The  English  red  in  triumph  high  above  the  Irish  green; 
But  well  they  died  in  breach  and  field,  who,  as  their  spirits  fled. 
Still   saw   the   green   maintain!  its  place   above   the  English  red. 

And  they  who  saw,  in  after  times,  the  red  above  the  green, 
Were  withered  as  the  grass  that  dies  beneath  the  forest  screen; 
Yet  often  by  this  healthy  hope  their  sinking  hearts  were  fed, 
That,  in  some  day  to  come,  the  green  should  flutter  o'er  the  red. 

Sure  'twas   for  this   Lord  Edward  died,   and  Wolfe  Tone   sunk  serene — 
Because  they  could  not  bear  to  leave  the  red  above  the  green; 
And  'twas  for  this  that  Owen  fought  and  Sarsfleld  nobly  bled — 
Because  their  eyes  were  hot  to  see  the  green  above  the  red. 

So  when  the  strife  began  again,  our  darling  Irish  green 
Was  down  upon  the  earth,  while  high  the  English  red  was  seen; 
Yet  still  we  hold  our  fearless  course,  for  something  in  us  said, 
Before  the  strife  is  o'er  you'll  see  the  green  above  the  red. 

And  'tis  for  this  we  think  and  toil,  and  knowledge  strive  to  glean, 
That  we  may  pull  the  English  red  below  the  Irish  green; 
And  leave  our  sons  sweet  liberty  and  smiling  plenty  spread, 
Above  the  land  once  dark  with  blood — the  green  above  the  red. 

The  jealous  English  tyrant  now  has  banned  the  Irish  green, 
And  forced  us  to  conceal  it  like  a  something  foul  and  mean; 
But  yet,  by  heaven!  he'll  sooner  raise  his  victims  from  the  dead, 
Than  force  our  hearts  to  leave  the  green  and  cotton  to  the  red. 

We'll  trust  ourselves,  for  God  is  good,  and  blesses  those  who  lean 
On  their  brave  hearts,  and  not  upon  an  earthly  king  or  queen; 
And,  freely  as  we  lift  our  hands  we  vow  our  blood  to  shed, 
Once  and  forever  more  to  raise  the  green  above  the  red. 


THE   OLD   BOG-HOLE. 

The  pig  is  in  the  mire  and  th£  cow  is  in  the  grass, 

A  man  without  a  woman  through  this  world  will  sadly  pass; 

My  mother  likes  the  ducks,  and  the  ducks  likes  the  drakes, 

Arrah!  sweet  Judy  Flanagan,  I'd  die  for  your  sakes. 

My  Judy  she's  as  fair  as  the  flowers  on  the  lea, 

She's  neat  and  complete  from  the  neck  to  the  knee; 

We  met  the  other  night  our  hearts  to  condole, 

And  I  sat  my  Judy  down  by  the  old  bog-hole. 

CHORUS.— 

Arrah!  cushla  mavoureen,  will  you  marry  me? 

Arrah!  gramachre  mavoureen,  will  you  marry  me? 

Arrah!  cushla  mavoureen,  will  you  marry  me? 

Arrah!  would  you  fancy  the  bold  bouncing  Barney  Magee? 

Judy  she  blushed  and  she  hung  down  her  head, 
Saying:    Barney,  you  blackguard,  I'd  like  to  get  wed; 
But  you  are  such  a  rogue  and  you  are  such  a  rake! 
Don't  believe  it,  says  I,  it  is  all  a  mistake; 
To  keep  you  genteel  I'll  work  at  my  trade, 
I'll  handle  a  hook,  a  shovel  and  a  spade; 
And  the  turf  I'll  procure  which  is  better  than  coal, 
And  I'll  dig  to  my  knees  in  the  old  bog-hole. 

Arrah!  cushla  mavoureen,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  155 

Fine  children  we  will  have,  for  you  must  mind  that, 

There  will  be  Darby,  Judy.  Barney,  Pat; 

There  will  be  Mary,  so  meek,  and  Kitty,  so  bluff— 

And  stop!  stop!  she  cries,  have  you  not  got  enough? 

I  will  not,  says  I,  nor  I  won't  be  content, 

'Till  once  I  have  as  many  as  there's  days  in  the  Lent; 

How  the  people  they  will  stare  when  we  go  out  for  a  stroll, 

When  we  are  promenading  by  the  old  bog-hole. 

Arrah!  cushla  mavoureen,  etc. 

By  the  hokey!  says  she,  I  can  scarcely  refuse, 
For  Barney,  the  blarney  he  knows  how  to  use; 
He  has  bothered  my  heart  with  the  picture  he  has  drawn, 
If  I  thought  I  could  trust  you,  the  job  might  be  done. 
Holy  murther!  says  I,  do  you  doubt  what  I  say? 
If  I  thought  I  could  trust  you,  I'd  swear  half  a  day; 
Oh,  no,  says  she,  it's  of  no  use  at  all, 
And  she  gave  her  consent  by  the  old  bog-hole. 
CHORUS.— 

Then  give  me  your  hand,  my  joys  and  delights, 

Be  aisy,  you  blackguard,  until  it's  all  right; 

And  when  we  are  wed  we'll  kiss  and  condole, 

And  we  will  go  to  dig  for  eels  in  the  old  bog-hole. 

KATTY,   DARLING. 

Now  the  flow'rs  are  blushing,  Katty,  darling. 

And  the  birds  are  warbling  on  each  tree, 
Heed  not  your  mother,  Katty,  darling, 

I'm  only  now  waiting  for  thee. 
The  sun  is  brightly  beaming. 

And  my  heart  with  love  is  beating  high; 
Oh!  then  hasten  quickly,  Katty,  darling, 

Ere  the  sun  has  left  the  morning  sky; 
Katty,  Katty,  Katty,  Katty, 

Oh!  then  hasten  quickly,  Katty,  darling, 
Ere  the  sun  has  left  the  morning  sky. 

Ton  grove  shall  hide  us,  Katty,  darling, 

While  the  sun  is  sparkling  o'er  the  lea; 
Oh!  then  meet  me  early,  Katty,  darling, 

And  love's  truth  I'll  whisper  to  thee. 
The  golden  rays  around  are  shining. 

But  the  lustre  of  thy  bright  eye 
To  me  is  dearer,  Katty,  darling, 

Than  the  rays  that  sparkle  in  the  sky. 
Katty,  Katty,  Katty,  Katty, 

Oh!  then  hasten  quickly,  Katty,  darling, 
Ere  the  sun  has  left  the  morning  sky. 

THE   SOLDIER   OF  ERIN. 

The  shadows  of  darkness  around  him  were  falling, 

And  eve's  lonely  star  lit  the  wanderer's  way, 
When  the  harp  of  the  minstrel,  his  footsteps  recalling, 

The  brave  soldier  paused  at  the  heart-moving  lay. 
Oh!   dear   to   my   soul  in   the  springtime  of  feeling,. 

Ere  the  blight  of  the  cold  world  had  swept  o'er  its  flowers; 
Was  that  strain  of  my  childhood  from  tender  lips  stealing, 

In  fair  Connamara's  now  desolate  bow'rs. 

Sweet  song  of  my  boyhood,  still  deeper  and  deeper, 

It  sinks  on  my  heart  as  I  list  to  the  strain; 
Like  a  dream  of  the  dead  that  steals  o'er  the  sleeper, 

And  brings  back  the  lost  and  the  loved  ones  again. 
Dear  voice  of  the  past,  like  the  lone  harp  of  Tara, 

It  wakes  'mid  the  ruins  of  all  I  deplore; 
Farewell  to  thy  green  hills,  my  fair  Connamara, 

First  home  of  my  heart,  I  shall  see  thee  no  more. 


156  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MARY    O'MARA. 

Mary  O'Mara,  I  think  that  I  see  thee, 

Still  blooming  and  young, 

Crcrwn'd  with  a  beauty  as  dazzllngly  beaming 
As  poet  e'er  sung. 

Lovers  deep-sighing, 
All  emulous  vying 

Thy  love  to  secure; 
While  'twas  mine  to  adore, 
And  my  lot  to  deplore — 
For  thy  minstrel  was  poor, 
Mary  O'Mara 
Mary  O'Mara,  the  lordly  O'Hara 

Might  make  thee  his  own, 

For  his  lineage  was  high,  while  the  light  of  thine  eye 
Might  have  challeng'd  a  throne! 
If  his  love  rise 
To  the  worth  of  the  prize 

He  hath  captur'd  in  thee, 
Then  a  homage  is  thine 
That  a  saint  in  her  shrine 
Scarcely  deeper  may  see. 

Mary  O'Mara. 
Mary  O'Mara,  I  think  that  I  hear  thee, 

With  voice  like  a  bell, 

So  silver-sweet  ringing,   the  minstrelsy  singing: 
Of  him  who  lov'd  well; 

Of  him  who,  still  loving    - 
And  hopelessly   roving 

In  regions  afar, 
Still  thinks  of  the  time 
That  he  wove  the  sweet  rhyme 
To  his  heart's  brightest  star — 
Mary  O'Mara. 


THE   ABSENT   IRISHMAN. 

God  speed  the  keel  of  the  trusty  ship, 

That  bears  ye  from  our  shore; 
There  is  little  chance  that  ye'll  ever  glan 

On  our  emerald  island  more. 
You  are  right  to  seek  a  far-off  earth, 

You  are  right  to  boldly  strive 
Where  labor  does  not  pine  in  dearth, 

And  the  honest  poor  may  thrive. 
CHORUS.— God  speed  ye  all!  ye  hopeful  band. 
O'er  your  boundless  path  of  blue; 

But  you'll  never  forget  your  own  old  land, 

Though  wealth  may  gladden  the  new. 
You'll  often  think  of  the  blackthorn  leaves, 

And  the  dog-rose  peeping  through; 
And  you'll  never  forget  the  harvest  sheaves, 

Though  the  wheat  was  not  for  you. 
You'll  often  think  of  the  busy  ploughs, 

And  the  merry-beating  flail ; 
You'll  sometimes  think  of  the  dappled  cows. 

And  then  think  of  the  milking-pail. 

God  speed,   etc. 
You'll  call  to  mind  good  neighbor  Hind, 

And  the  widow  down  the  lane; 
And  you'll  wonder  if  the  old  man's  dead, 

Or  the  widow  wed  again. 
You'll  often  think  of  the  village  spire, 

And  the  churchyard  green  and  fair; 
And  perchance  you'll  sigh  with  drooping  eye 

If  you've  left  a  loved  one  there. 

God  speed,   etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  167 

Perhaps  ye  leave  a  white-haired  sire, 

A  sister,  or  a  brother; 
Perhaps  your  heart  has  dared  to  part 

Forever  from  a  mother. 
If  so,  then  many  a  time  and  oft, 

Your  better  thoughts  will  roam, 
And  mem'ry's  pinions,  strong  and  soft, 

Will  fly  to  your  Erin  home. 

God  speed,  etc. 

GROVES    OF    BLARNEY. 

The  groves  of  Blarney  they  are  so  charming 

All  by  the  purling  of  swate  silent  brooks, 
All  decked  with  roses,  which  spontaneous  grow  there, 

Planted  in  order  by  the  swate  rocky  nooks. 
'Tis  there  the  daisy  and  swate  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink  and  the  rose  so  fair, 
Besides  the  lily  and  the  daffy-down-dilly 

Flowers  that  scent  the  swate  fragrant  air. 
'Tis  Lady  Jeffers  that  owns  this  station, 

Like  Alexander,  or  Queen  Helen  fair, 
There's  no  commander  throughout  this  nation 

For  emulation  can  with  her  compare. 
There's  castles  round  her  that  no  nine-pounder 

Could  dare  to  plunder  her  place  of  strength; 
But  Oliver  Crummell  he  did  her  pummell, 

And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 
There's  grand  walks  there  for  contemplation, 

And  conversation  in  swate  solitude; 
'Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 

The  gentle  plover  in  the  afternoon; 
And  if  a  young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 

As  for  to  take  a  walk  in  their  shady  bowers, 
'Tis  there  her  courtcr  he  might  transport  her 

To  some  dark  fort  or  under  ground. 
'Tis  there's  the  cave  where  no  daylight  enters, 

But  bats,  rats,  and  badges  are  forever  bred, 
All  decked  by  natur',  which  makes  it  swater 

Nor  a  coach  and  six  or  a  feather  bed. 
'Tis  there  the  lakes  that  are  stored  with  perches, 

And   comely   eels  in   the   verdant  mud, 
Besides  the  leeches,  and  the  groves  of  beeches, 

All  standing  in  order  to  guard  the  flood. 
There  is  the  stone  that  whoever  kisses, 

He  never  misses  to  grow  eloquent — 
'Tis  he  may  clamber  to  a  lady's  chamber, 

Or  become  a  member  of  Parliament. 
A  clever  spouter,  he'll  sure  turn  out,  or 

"An  out-and-outer"  to  be  let  alone: 
Don't  hope  to  hinder  him,  or  to  bewilder  him — 

Sure  he's  a  pilgrim  from  the  Blarney  Stone. 
'Tis  there's  the  kitchen,  hangs  many  a  flitch  In, 

With  the  maids  a-stitching  upon  the  stair; 
Och,  the  bread  and  the  bis'kie,  the  beef  and  the  whiskey. 

Faith,  they'd  make  you  frisky  if  you  was  but  there. 
'Tis  there  you'd  see  Peg  Murphy's  daughter 

A-washing  praties  foment  the  door, 
With  Nancy  Casey  and  Aunt  Delancy, 

All  blood  relations  to  my  Lord  Donoughmore. 
There's  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in. 

All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair; 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch  and  Nicodemus, 

All  mother-naked  in  the  open  air. 
So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 

Which  I  have  not  the  genii  for  to  entwine, 
But  were  I  Homer  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

'Tis  in  every  feature  that  I'd  make  it  shine. 


158  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

DARBY    KELLY. 

My  grandsire  beat  a  drum  so  neat, 

His  name  was  Darby  Kelly,  O, 
No  lad  so  true  at  rat  tat  too, 

At  roll-call  or  reveille,  O. 
When  Marlboro's  name  first  raised  his  fame, 

My  granny  beat  the  point  of  war, 
At  Blenheim   he,   and  Ramillie, 

Made  ears  to  tingle  far  and  near, 
For  with  his  wrist  he'd  such  a  twist. 

The  girls  would  leer,  you  don't  know  how,  , 

They  laughed  and  sighed,  and  joked  and  cried, 

To  hear  him  beat  his  row  dow  dow; 
With  a  row  dow  dow, 

They  laughed  and  sighed,  and  joked  and  cried 

To  hear  him,  etc. 
A  son  he  had  who,  like  his  dad, 

Was  as  tight  a  lad  as  any,  O, 
You  ne'er  would  know,  though  you  should  go 

From  Chester  to  Kilkenny,  O. 
When  great  Wolf  died,  his  country's  pride, 

To  arms  my  dapper  father  beat; 
Each  dale  and  hill  remembered  still 

How  loud,  how  long,  how  stout,  how  neat, 
With  each  drumstick  he  had  the  trick, 

The  girls  would  leer,  you  don't  know  how 
Their  eyes  would  glisten,  their  ears  would  listen, 

To  hear  him  beat  the  row  dow  dow. 

Their  eyes,  etc. 
Yet,  ere  I  wed,  ne'er  be  it  said 

But  what  I  the  foe  da-re  meet, 
With  Wellington,   old  Erin's  son, 

To  help  to  make  them  beat  retreat; 
King  Arthur  once,   or  I'm  a  dunce, 

Was  called  the  hero  of  his  age, 
But  what  was  he  to  him  we  see, 

The  Arthur  of  the  modern  page? 
Who,  by  the  powers,  from  Lisbon's  Towers 

Their  trophies  bore  to  grace  his  brow, 
And  made  them  prance,  from  Spain  to  France, 

With  his  English,   Irish,  row  dow  dow, 
With  his  row  dow  dow, 

And  made  them  prance,  from  Spain  to  France, 

With  his  English,  etc. 

EILY    MAVOTJRNEEN,    THE    ROSE    OF    KILLARNY. 

Through  Erin's  green   and  bonny  Isle, 

From   Coleraine  to  Killarny's  waters, 
Each  lovely  haunt  hath  had  its  song, 

Of  gallant  sons   and  charming  daughters. 
But  Oh!  there  is  one  sunny  spot, 

To  me  more  dear,  more  prized  than  any, 
Where  first   in    loveliness   sprung   up 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarny. 

CHORUS. — The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarny,  blossoms  in  Killarny, 
The   rose  that  blossoms  in   Killarny,   blossoms   in  Killarny. 

I  thought  when  first  her  eyes  met  mine, 

My  peace,  my  heart,  were  gone  forever; 
I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  love, 

For  fear  a  breath  the  charm  might  sever. 
Her  cheeks  are  like  the  rose  of  May, 

Her  voice  hath  banished  care  from  many; 
No  thought  can  wrong  my  bonny  flower, 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarny. 

The  rose  that  blossoms,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  159 

ST.    KEVEN    AND    KING    O'TOOL. 

St.  Keven  was  a  traveling  through  a  place  called  Glendalough, 
He  chanced  to  meet  with  King  O'Tool,  and  he  axed  him  for  a  sleugh. 
Says  the  King,  "You're  but  a  stranger,  for  your  face  I  have  never  seen, 
But  if  you  have  a  taste  of  weed,  I'll  lend  vou  my  dudheen." 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

Keven  the  saint  was  kindling  up  the  pipe,  the  monarch  gave  a  sigh. 
"Is  there  anything  the  matter?"  says  the  saint,  "that  makes  you  cry?" 
Says  the  king,  "I  had  a  gander,  that  was  gave  me  by  my  mother, 
And  this  morning  he  has  cracked  his  toes  with  some  disease  or  other." 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

"Are  you  crying  for  your  gander,  you  unfortunate  old  goose. 
Dry  up  your  tears,  in  fretting,  sure,   the  divil  take  the  use." 
Says  the  saint,  "What  would  you  give  me,  if  the  gander  I'd  revive?" 
Says  the  king,  "I'd  be  your  sarvent  all  the  days  that  I'm  alive." 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

"I'll  cure  him,"  says  the  saint,  "but  I  want  no  sarvent  man, 
But  if  I'd  not  make  too  bold  to  ax  I'd  like  a  bit  of  land. 
As  you  think  so  much  about  the  bird,  if  I  make  him  whole  and  sound, 
Will  you  give  me  the  taste  of  land  the  gander  does  fly  round?" 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

"In  troth,  I  will,  an'  welcome,"  says  the  king,  "give  what  you  ask." 
Says  the  saint,  "Then  bring  the  gander,  and  I'll  begin  the  task." 
The  king  went  to  the  palace  for  to  fetch  him  out  the  bird, 
Tho'  he'd  not  the  least  intention  of  sticking  to  his  word. 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

St.  Keven  took  the  gander  from  the  arms  of  the  old  king, 
He  first  began  to  twig  his  beak,  and  then  to  stretch  his  wing, 
He  hooshed  him  up  into  the  air,  he  flew  twenty  miles  around, 
Says  the  saint,  "I'd  thank  your  Majisty  for  that  little  bit  of  ground." 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

The  king  to  raise  a  ruction,  faith,  he  called  the  saint  a  witch, 
And  sent  in  for  his  six  big  sons  to  heave  him  in  the  ditch. 
"Nabocklis,"  says  St.  Keven,  "now  I'll  settle  those  young  urchins," 
He  turned  the  king  and  his  six  sons  into  the  seven  churches. 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

Thus  King  O'Tool  was  punished  for  his  dishonest  doings, 
The  saint  then  left  the  gander  to  guard  about  the  ruins. 
If  you'd  go  there  on  a  summer's  day,  between  twelve  and  one  o'clock, 
You'll  see  the  gander  flying  round  the  glen  of  Glendalough. 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 

Now  I  think  there  is  a  moral  attached  unto  my  song. 
To  punish  men  is  only  right  whenever  they  do  wrong. 
For  poor  men  they  may  keep  their  word  much  better  than  folks  grander. 
For  the  king  begrudged  to  pay  the  saint  tor  curing  his  old  gander. 

Fol  de  diddle  di  do. 


DESMOND'S  SONG. 

By  the  Feal's  wave  benighted,  not  a  star  in  the  skies, 
To  thy  door  by  love  lighted  I  first  saw  those  eyes; 
Some  voice  whisper'-d  o'er  me  as  thy  threshold  I  cross'd, 
There  was  ruin  before  me,  if  I  loved,  I  was  lost. 
Love  came  and  brought  sorrow  too  soon   in  its  train; 
Yet  so  sweet  that  to-morrow  'twere  welcome  again; 
Tho'  misery's  full  measure  my  portion  should  be, 
I  would  drain  it  with  pleasure  if  pour'd  out  by  thee. 
You  who  call  it  dishonor  to  bow  to  this  flame, 
If  you've  eyes  look  but  on  her  and  blush  while  you  blame; 
Hath  the  pearl   less-  whiteness  because  of  its  birth? 
Hath  the  violet  less  brightness  for  growing  near  earth? 
No  man  for  his  glory  to  ancestry  flies; 
But  woman's  bright  story  is  told  in  her  eyes; 
While  the  monarch  but  traces  thro'  mortals  his  line. 
Beauty,   born  of  the  Graces,   ranks  next  to  divine! 


180  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

KATHLEEN  O'MOORE. 

My  love,  still  I  think  that  I  see  her  once  more, 
But  alas!  she  has  left  me  her  loss  to  deplore, 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  lost  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

Her  hair  glossy  black,  her  eyes  were  dark  blue, 
Her  color  still  changing,  her  smiles  ever  new: 
So  pretty  was  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

She  milked  the  dun  cow  that  ne'er  offered  to  stir, 
Though  wicked  it  was,  it  was  gentle  to  her; 
So  kind  was  my  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 
She  sat  by  the  door  one  cold  afternoon, 
To  hear  the  wind  blow,  and  look  at  the  moon, 
So  pensive  was  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

O  cold  was  the  night  breeze  that  sighed  round  her  bower, 
It  chlll'd  my  poor  Kathleen,  she  drooped  from  that  hour, 
And  I  lost  my  poor  Kathleen,  my  dear  little  Kathleen, 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 
The  bird  of  all  birds  that  I  love  the  best, 
Is  the  robin  that  in  the  church-yard  builds  its  nest, 
For  he  seems  to  watch  Kathleen,  hops  lightly  on  Kathleen. 

My  Kathleen  O'Moore. 

TEKRY  MALONE. 

One  ev'ning  from  market  returning, 

Just  thinking  of  what  I'll  not  name; 
May  be  some  of  ye  guess,  ah!  now  don't  ye? 

For  'tis  few  have  not  thought  of  the  same. 
But  my  heart  is  as  open  as  sunshine, 

A  secret  lies  heavy  as  stone; 
So  I'll  even  confess,  without  blushing, 

I  was  thinking  of  Terry  Malone. 
If  you  spake  of  some  one  I'll  not  mention, 

It  is  certain,  they  say,  he'll  appear, 
And  so  of  the  lad  I  was  thinking, 

By  the  bosheen  I  saw  his  draw  near. 
I  was  pleased  yet  sorry  to  see  him, 

And  he  asked  me  to  meet  him  alone; 
But  I  very  well  knew  what  he  wanted, 

So  avoided  poor  Terry  Malone. 
Coming  home  the  next  ev'ning  quite  lonely, 

All  at  once  who  d'ye  think  I  did  spy, 
But  Terry  himself  in  a  flurry, 

And  oh!  such  a  beam  in  his  eye! 
Where's  the  use  to  descend  to  particulars, 

Enough  if  the  end  be  made  known — 
That  same  night,  by  the  moon,  I  consented, 

To    become   Mistress   Terry   Malone. 

HEAE   ME   BUT   ONCE. 

Hear  me  but  once,  while  o'er  the  grave 

In  which  our  love  lies  cold  and  dead, 
I  count  each  flatt'ring  hope  he  gave, 

Of  joys  now  lost  and  charms  now  fled! 
Who  could  have  thought  the  smile  he  wore 

When  first  we  met  would  fade  away? 
Or  that  a  chill  would  e'er  come  o'er 

Those  eyes  so  bright,  thro'  many  a  day? 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  161 

SEND    BACK   MY    BAKNEY    TO   ME. 

He   is    gone,    and   I'm   now    sad   and    lonely, 

He  has  left  me  to  cross  the  wide  sea, 
But  I  know  that  he  thinks  of  me  only^ 

And   will   soon   be  returning   to   me. 
His  eyes   they   were   filled   with  devotion, 

As  my  husband  he  said  he'd  soon  be. 
Then   blow  gently,   ye   winds   of   the   ocean, 

And  send  back  my  Barney  to  me. 
If  at  night,  as  I  rest  on  my  pillow, 

The  wind  heaves  a  moan  and  a  sigh, 
I   think   of   each   angry   billow, 

And  watch  every  cloud  o'er  the  sky, 
My  bosom  it  fills  with  emotion, 

As  I  pray  for  one  over  the  sea. 
Then   blow  gently,   ye   winds   of   the  ocean, 

And  send  back  my   Barney  to  me. 
He  has  left  me  his  fortune  to  better, 

I  know  that  he   went  for  my  sake, 
Soon  I'll  be  receiving  a  letter, 

If  not,  sure  my  poor  heart  will  break; 
To   say   that  he'll   soon   be  returning 

To  his  dear  native  Ireland  and  me. 
Then   blow  gently,    ye   winds   of   the   ocean, 

And   send   back   my   Barney   to   me. 


MANTLE   SO   GKEEN. 

As  I  went  walking,   one  evening  in  June, 
To  view  the  fair  fields  and  meadows  so  green, 
I  spied  a  young  damsel,  she  appeared  like  a  queen 
With  her  costly  fine  robes,  and  her  mantle  so  green! 
I  stood  in  amaze — I  was  struck  with  surprise — 
I  thought  her  an  angel  that  fell  from  the  skies — 
Her  eyes  like  the  diamond,   her  cheeks  like  the  rose, 
She  is  one  of  the  fairest  that  nature  composed. 
Said  I:   Pretty  fair  maid,   if  you  come  with  me, 
We  will  join   in  wedlock,   and  married  we'll  be; 
I'll  dress  you  in  rich  attire,  and  you'll  appear  like  a  queen, 
With   your  costly   fine   robes   and  your  mantle   so   green! 
She  answered  me:  Young  man,  you  must  be  refused, 
For  I'll  wed  with  no  man,   you  must  me  excuse; 
The  green  hills  I'll  wander,   to  shun   all  men's  view, 
For  the  lad  that  I  love  lies  in  famed  Waterloo. 
Since  you're  not  married,  tell  me  your  love's  name; 
I  have  been  in  battle,  I  might  have  known  the  same. 
Draw   near  to  my  garment,   and   there   you   will  see 
His  name  embroidered  on  my  mantle  so  green! 
On  the  raising  of  her  mantle,  it's  there  I  behold 
His   name   and  his  surname,   in   letters  of  gold!— 
Young  William   O'Reilly  appeared  in  my  view; 
He  was  my   chief  comrade  in  famed  Waterloo. 
We  fought  so  victorious,   where  bullets  did  fly. 
And   in   the   field  of  Norvon.   your   true   love   does   lie, 
We  fought  for  three  days  to  the  fourth   afternoon; 
He  received  his  death  summons  on  the  18th  of  June. 
As  he  was  a  dying  I  heard  his  last  cry — 
Were  you  here,  lovely  Nancy,  content  I  would  die. 
Peace   is  proclaimed,   and   the  truth   I'll   declare- 
Here  is  your  love's  token,  the  ring  that  I  wear. 
I    stood   in    amazement,    the  paler   she   grew— 
She  flew  from  my  arms  with  her  heart  full  of  woe. 
To  the  green   hills  I'll  wander  for  the  lass  that  I  love! 
Rise  up,    lovely   Nancy,  your  grief  I'll  remove. 


162  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Oh,   Nancy,   lovely  Nancy,   It  was  I  won   your  heart! 

In  your  father's  garden,  that  day  we  did  part, 

In  your   father's   garden,   within    a  green   shadow   tree. 

Where  I  rolled  you  in  my  arms  in  your  mantle  so  green! 

This  couple  have  got  married  I  heard  people  say; 

They  had  nobles  to  attend  them  on  their  wedding  day. 

Now  peace  is  proclaimed  and  the  war  is  all  o'er, 

You  are  welcome  to  my  arms,  lovely  Nancy,  once  more! 

PEGGY  BAWN. 

As  I  gaed  o'er  the  Highland  hills 

To  a  farmer's  house  I  came, 
The  night  being  dark  and  something  wet, 

I    ventur'd   into   the   same, 
Where  I  was  kindly  treated, 

And  a  pretty  girl  I  spied, 
Who  ask'd  me  if  I  had  a  wife, 

But  marriage    I    denied. 
I  courted  her  the  lea-lang  eve, 

Till  near  the  dawn  of  day, 
When  frankly  she  to  me  did  say 

"Alang   with   thee  I'll   gae; 
For  Ireland  is  a  fine  country, 

And  the  Scots  to  you  are  kin, 
So  I  will  gang  alang  wi'  thee, 

My  fortune  to  begin." 
Day  being  come  and  breakfast 

To  the  parlor  I  was  ta'eu, 
The  gude  man  kindly  asked  me 

If  I'd  marry  his  daughter  Jane; 
"Five  hundred   inerks  I'll   give  her, 

Beside  a  piece  of  Ian'," 
But  scarcely  had   he  spoke  the  word 

Than  I  thought  of  Peggy  Bawn. 
"Your   offer,    sir,    is  very   good. 

And  I   thank  you,   too,"   said   I; 
"But  I  cannot  be  your  son-in-law, 

And  I'll  tell  you  the  reason  why; 
My   business  calleth  me  in   haste; 

I   am  the  king's  servant  bound, 
And  I   must  gang   awa'   this   day 

Straight  to  Edingburgh  town." 
Oh,   Peggy  Bawn,   thou  art  my  own, 

And   thy   heart  lies   in   my  breast, 
And  tho'  we  at  a  distance  are, 

Yet  I  love  thee  still  the  best; 
Although   we   at  a  distance   are, 

And  the  seas  between   us  roar, 
Yet  I'll  be  constant,  Peggy  Bawn, 

To   thee   forevermore. 


PADDIES    EVERMORE. 

The  hour  is  past  to  fawn  or  crouch  as  suppliants  for  our  right; 

Let  word  and  deed  unshrinking  vouch  the  banded  millions'  might; 

Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill  now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 

And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still,   we're  Paddies  evermore; 

Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill  now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 

And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still,  we're  Paddies  evermore. 

What  though  they  menace  suffering  men  their  threats  and  them  despise; 

Or  promise  justice  once  again  we  know  their  words  are  lies; 

We  stand  resolved  those  rights  to  claim  they  robbed  us  of  before, 

Our  own  dear  nation  and  our  name,  as  Paddies,  and  no  more. 

Look  round — the  Frenchmen  governs  France,  the  Spaniard  rules  in  Spain, 

The  gallant   Pole  but  waits  his  chance  to  break  the   Russian  chain; 

The  strife  for  freedom  here  begun  we  never  will  give  o'er, 

Nor  own  a  land  on  earth  but  one — we're  Paddies  and  no  more. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  163 

MILD  MABEL  KELLY. 

As   when   the  softly  blushing  rose 

Close  by  some  neighb'ring  lily  grows, 

Such   is  the   glow  thy  cheeks  diffuse. 

And  such  their  bright  and  blended  hues. 

The  timid  lustre  of  thine  eye 

With   nature's  purest  tints  can  vie; 

With  the  sweet  bluebell's  azure  gem, 

That  droops  upon  its  modest  stem. 

The  poets  of  lerne's  plains 

To  thee  devote  their  choicest  strains. 

And  oft  their  harps  for  thee  are  strung, 

And  oft  thy  matchless  charms  are  sung. 

Since   the  fam'd   fair  of  ancient  days 

Whom   bards  and   worlds   conspir'd   to   praise, 

Not    one    like    thee   has    since    appear'd, 

Like  thee,   to  ev'ry   heart   endear'd. 

THE  DAWNING  OF  THE  DAY. 

At  early  dawn   I   once  had  been 

Where  Lene's  blue  waters   flow, 
When  summer  bid  the  groves  be  green. 

The   lamp  of  light  to  glow, 

The  lamp  of  light  to  glow; 
As  on  by  bow'r,   and  town,   and  tow'r, 

And   widespread   fields   I   stray, 
I  meet  a  maid  in  the  greenwood  shade 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
Her  feet  and  beauteous  head  were  bare. 

No  mantle  fair  she  wore, 
But  down  her  waist  fell  golden  hair 

That  swept   the   tall   grass   o'er, 

That  swept  the   tall   grass  o'er; 
With  milking  pail   she  sought  the  vale, 

And   bright   her   charms  display, 
Outshining  far  the  morning  star, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day, 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 
Beside  me   sat   that   maid   divine 

Where  grassy  banks  outspread, 
"Oh!   let  me  call  thee  ever  mine, 

Dear    maid,"    I    gently    said, 

"Dear  maid,"   I  gently  said; 
A  blush  o'erspread  her  lily  cheek, 

She  rose  and  sprang  away, 
The  sun's  first  light  pursued  her  flight 

At  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

At  the  dawning  of  the   day. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  FINAE. 

Bright  red  is  the  sun  on  the  waves  of  Lough  Sheelii 

A  cool  gentle  breeze  from  the  mountain  is  stealing, 

While   fair  round   its  islets  the  small   ripples  play, 

But  fairer  than  all  is  the  Plow'r  of  Finse. 

Her  hair  is  like  night  and  her  eyes  like  grey  morning, 

She  trips  on  the  heather  as  if  its  touch  scorning, 

Yet  her  heart  and  her  lips  are  as  mild  as  May  day 

Sweet  Eily   MacMahon,  the  Flow'r  of  Finse. 

But  who  down  the  hillside  than  the  red  deer  runs  fleeter? 

And  who  on  the  lakeside  is  hast'ning  to  greet  her? 

Who   but  Fergus   O'Farrel,   the   fiery  and   gay, 

The  darling  and  pride  of  the  Flow'r  of  Finae. 


164  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Lord  Clare  on  the  field  of  Ramilies  is  charging, 
Before  him  the   Sassanach   squadrons   enlarging, 
Behind   him  the  Cravats  their   sections   display. 
Behind  him  rides  Fergus  and  shouts  for  Finse. 
In  the  cloisters  of  Ypres  a  banner  is  swaying, 
And  by  it  a  pale  weeping  maiden  is  praying; 
That  flag's  the  sole  trophy  of  Ramilies  fray, 
This  nun  is  poor  Eily,  the  Flow'r  of  Finae. 

AT    THE   YELLOW    BOREEN. 

At  the  yellow  boreen  is  my  heart's  secret  queen, 

Alone  on    her  soft  bed  a-sleeping; 
Each  tress  of  her  hair  than  the  king's  gold  more  fair, 

The  dew  from  the  grass  might  be  sweeping; 
I'm  a  man  of  Teige's  race  who  has  watched  her  fair  face, 

And   away   from   her   ever   I'm   sighing; 
And,  oh,   my  heart's   store,   be  not  griev'd  evermore 

That  for  you  a  young  man  should  be  dying. 

Should  my  love  with  me  come  I  will  build  me  a  home, 

The  finest  e'er  told   of  in   Erin; 
And   'tis  then  she  would  shine  and  her  fame  ne'er  decline, 

For  bounty  o'er   all  the  palm  bearing; 
For  in  your  bosom  bright  shines  the  pure  sunny   light, 

As   in   your  smooth   brow   grateful  ever; 
And,  oh,  could  I  say,  "You're  my  own  from  this  day," 

Death's  contest  would  frighten  me  never. 


THE  RAKES  OF  MALLOW. 

Beauing,  belleing,  dancing,  drinking, 
Breaking  windows,  swearing,  sinking, 
Ever  raking,  never  thinking, 

Live  the  Rakes  of  Mallow; 
Spending  faster  than  it  comes, 
Beating  waiters,   bailiffs,    duns 
Bacchus'  true-begotten   bons, 

Live  the  Rakes  of  Mallow. 

One  time  nought  but  claret  drinking, 
Then  like  politicians,  thinking, 
Raising  funds  when  funds  are  sinking, 

Live  the  Rakes  of  Mallow; 
Living  short  but  merry  lives, 
Going   where   the  devil   drives, 
Having  sweethearts  but  no  wives, 

Live  the  Rakes  of  Mallow. 

Racking  tenants,   stewards  teasing, 
Swiftly   spending,   slowly  raising, 
Wishing  thus  to  spend  their  days  in 

Raking  as  at  Mallow; 
Then  to  end  this  raking  life 
They  get  sober,  take  a  wife, 
Ever  after   live   in   strife, 

And   wish   again   for   Mallow. 


DOWN  BY   THE   SALLY   GARDENS. 

Down  by  the  sally  gardens  my  love  and  I  did  meet; 
She  passed  the  sally  gardens  with  little  snow-white  feet; 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  leaves  grow  on  the  tree; 
But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  with  her  did  not  agree. 

In  a  field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I  did  stand; 
And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her  snow-white  hand. 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  grass  grows  on  the  weirs; 
But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am  full  of  tears. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  165 

THE  FAIR  HILLS  OF  HOLY  IRELAND. 

Beautiful  and  wide  are  the  green  fields  of  Erin, 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 
With  lifegiving  grain  in  th«  corn  therein, 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 

And  honey  in  the  woods  of  the  mist-wreaths  deep, 
And  in  summer  by  the  paths  the  bright  streams  leap; 
At  burning  noon,  rich,  sparkling  dew  the  fair  flow'rs  steep 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Erin,  O! 

How  clust'ring  his  ringlets,  how  lofty  his  bearing 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 
Each  warrior  leaving  the  broad  bays  of  Erin, 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 

Would  heaven  grant  the  hope  in  my  besom  swelling, 
I'd  seek  that  land  of  joy  in  life's  gifts  excelling, 
Beyond  your  rich  rewards  I'd  choose  a  lonely  dwelling, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Erin,  O! 

Gainful  and  large  are  the  cornstacks  of  Erin, 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 
Yellow  cream  and  butter  abound  ever  therein, 

Ullachan  dhuv,  O! 

And  sorrel  soft  and  cresses  where  bright  streams  stray, 
And  speaking  cuckoos  fill  the  grove  the  livelong  day, 
The  little  thrush  so   noble  of  sweetest  sounding  lay, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  Erin,   O! 


BEFORE    THE    SUN   ROSE    AT    YESTER    DAWN. 

Before  the  sun  rose  at  yester  dawn, 

I  met  a  fair  maid  a-down  the  lawn; 

The  berry  and  snow  to  her  cheek  gave  its  glow, 

And  her  brow  was  as  fair  as  the  sailing  swan — 

Then  pulse  of  my  heart!   what  gloom  is  thine? 
Her  beautiful  voice  more  hearts  hath  won, 
Than   Orpheus'    lyre   of   old  had  done; 
Her  ripe  eyes  of  blue  were  crystals  of  dew, 
On  the  grass  of  the  lawn  before  the  sun — 

And,  pulse  of  my  heart!  what  gloom  is  thine? 


BRIGHT    FAIRIES. 

Bright  fairies  by  Glengariff's  bay, 
Soft  woods  that  o'er  Killarney  sway, 
Bold   echoes   born   in   Ceimaneich, 

Your  kinsman's  greeting  hear! 
He   asks   you,   by   old  friendship's  name 
By  all  the  rights  that  minstrels  claim, 
For  Erin's  joy  and  Desmond's  fame, 

Be  kind   to   Fanny  dear! 
Her  eyes  are  darker  than   Dunloe, 
Her  soul  is  whiter  than  the  snow, 
Her  tresses,   like  Arbutus  flow, 

Her  step  like  frighted  deer. 
Then,   still  thy  waves,   capricious  lake, 
And   ceaseless,    soft   winds   round    her    wake, 
Yet  never   bring  a   cloud  to   break 

The  smile  of  Fanny  dear! 
Old   Mangerton!    thine  eagle's   plume, 
Dear    Innisfallen!    brighter   bloom. 
And,    Mucruss!    whisper    thro'    the    gloom 

Quaint   legends   to   her   ear. 
Till   strong  as  ash  tree  in  its  pride 
And  gay  as  sunbeam  on  the  tide. 
We  welcome  back  to   Liffey's   side 

Our   brightest   Fanny    dear! 


166  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

IKISH  WAR-SONG. 

Bright   sun!   before  whose  glorious  ray 

Our  pagan  fathers  bent  the  knee; 
Whose  pillar  altars  yet  can  say, 

When  time  was  young  our  sires  were  free; 
Who  see'st  how  fallen  their  offsprings  be, 

Our  matron's  tears,  our  patriot's  gore; 
We  swear  before  high  Heav'n  and  thee 

The  Saxon  holds  us  slaves  no  more! 
The  clairseach  wild,  whose  trembling  string 

Had  long  the  "song  of  sorrow"  spoke, 
Shall  bid  the  wild  Rosg-Cata  sing, 

The   curse  and   crime   of   Saxon  yoke. 
And  by  each  heart  his  bondage  broke, 

Each  exile's  sigh  on  distant  shore, 
Each  martyr   'neath  the  headman's  stroke, 

The  Saxon  holds  us  slaves  no  more! 
Send   the  loud  warcry  o'er   the  main; 

Your  sunburst  to  the  breezes  spread; 
That  slogan  rends  the  heav'n  in   twain. 

The  earth  reels  back  beneath  your  tread. 
Ye   Saxon   despots,    hear,    and   dread! 

Your  march  o'er  patriots   hearts  is  o'er; 
That  shout  hath  told,  that  tramp  hath  said, 

Our  country's  sons  are  slaves  no   more! 


FAIREST!     PUT    ON   AWHILE. 

Fairest,  put  on  awhile  these  pinions  of  light  I  bring  thee, 

And  o'er  thine  own  green  isle  in  fancy  let  me  wing  thee. 

Never  did  Ariel's  plume  at  golden  sunset  hover 

O'er  such  scenes  of  bloom  as  I  shall  waft  thee  over. 

Fields  where  the  spring  delays  and  fearlessly  meets  the  ardour 

Of  the  warm  summer's  gaze  with  only  her  tears  to   guard  her. 

Rocks   thro'    myrtle   boughs   in   grace   majestic   frowning, 

Like  some  bold  warrior's  brows  that  Love  hath  just  been  crowning. 

Islets  so  freshly  fair  that  never  hath  bird  come  nigh  them, 

But  from  his  course  through  air  he  hath  been  won  down  by  them. 

Types,   sweet  maid,  of  thee,  whose  look,  whose  blush  inviting, 

Never  did  Love  yet  see,   from  Heav'n,   without  alighting. 

Lakes  where  the  pearl  lies  hid  and  caves  where  the  gem  is  sleeping, 

Bright  as  the  tears  thy  lid  lets  fall  in  lonely  weeping. 

Glens  where  ocean  comes  to  'scape  the  wild  wind's  rancour, 

Harbours,  worthiest  homes,  where  Freedom's  fleet  can  anchor. 

Then  if  while  scenes  so  grand,  so  beautiful,  shine  before  thee, 

Pride  for  thy  own  dear   land  should  haply  be  stealing  o'er  thee, 

Oh,    let   grief   come   first,    o'er   pride   itself  victorious, 

Thinking  how  man  hath  curst  what  Heav'n  hath  made  so  glorious. 

FAR  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Far  in  the  mountains  with  you,  my  Eveleen, 
I   would  be   loving  and  true,    my  Eveleen; 

Then   climb   the   mountains  with   me! 
Long  have  I   dwelt  by  the  forest  river  side, 
Where  the  bright  ripples   flash   and   quiver   wide, 
There  the  fleet  hours  shall  blissful  ever  glide 

O'er  us,  sweet  Gragal  Machree! 
There   on  my  rocky   throne,   my  Eveleen, 
Ever,   ever  alone,  my  Eveleen, 

I   sit  dreaming  of  thee; 

High  on  the  fern-clad  rocks  reclining  there, 
Though  the  wild  birds  their  songs  are  twining  fair, 
Then   I   hear  and   I   see  thy   shining  hair, 

Still,    still,    sweet   Gragal   Macbree! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  167 

Deeply  in  broad   Kilmore,   my  Eveleen, 

Down  by  the  wild  stream's  shore,   my  Eveleen, 

I've  made  a  sweet  house  for  thee; 
Yellow   and  bright   thy   long,   long   flowing  hair, 
Flow'rs   the   fairest   are   ever  blowing   there, 
Fairer  still  with   thy   clear  eyes  glowing   there, 

Fondly,   sweet  Gragal  Machree! 
Then  come  away,   away,   my  Eveleen, 
We   will    spend   each   day,    my   Eveleen, 

Blissful  and  loving  and  free; 

Come  to   the  woods  where   the   streams  are  pouring  blue, 
Which  the  eagle  is  ever  soaring  through; 
I'll  grow  fonder  each  day  adoring  you, 

There,   there,   sweet   Gragal   Machree! 

FILL   THE   BUMPER    FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair!    Ev'ry  drop  we  sprinkle 

O'er  the  brow  of  Care  smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Wit's   electric    flame   ne'er   so   swiftly   passes 

As  when  thro'  the  frame  it  shoots  from  brimming  glasses; 

Fill  the  bumper  fair!    Ev'ry  drop  we  sprinkle 

O'er  the  brow  of  Care  smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say,  grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 

And  bring  dojm  its  ray  from  the  starr'd  dominions; 

So  we   Sages  sit  and    'mid  bumpers  bright'ning 

From  the  heav'n  of  wit  draw  down  all  its  lightning; 

Would'st  thou  know  what  first  made  our  souls  inherit 

This  ennobling  thirst  for  wine's  celestial  spirit? 

It  chanc'd  upon  that  day  when,  as  bards  inform  us, 

Prometheus  stole  away  the  living  fires  that  warm  us. 

The  careless  youth  when  up  to  glory's  fount  aspiring 

Took   nor  urn  nor  cup  to  hide  the  pilfer'd   fire  in; 

But  oh!   his  joy  when   round  the  halls   of  Heaven  spying, 

Among  the  stars  he  found  a  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl,  remains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 

With  which  the  sparks  of  soul  mix'd  their  burning  treasure; 

Hence  the  goblet's  show'r  hath  such  spells  to  win  us, 

Hence  its  mighty  power  o'er  the  flame  within  us. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair!    Ev'ry  drop  we  sprinkle 

O'er  the  brow  of  Care  smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 


MY  ROSE. 

Droop  all  the  flow'rs  in  my  garden,  all  their  fair  heads  hang  low; 
For  rose,  their  fairest  companion,  ne'er  again  will  they  know. 
Bring  me  no  flowers  for  wearing,  take  these  strange  buds  away, 
For  I  cannot  now  have  the  fairest,  my  rose  that  has  died  to-day. 
What  has  blighted  my  blossom?  Stricken  it  down  with  death, 
Over  the  walls  of  my  garden  what  save  the  world's  cold  breath? 
Then  bring  no  flowers  for  wearing,  take  these  strange  buds  away, 
Since  I  cannot  now  have  the  sweetest,  my  rose  that  has  died  to-day. 

THE   WOODPECKER. 

I  knew  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curl'd 
.    Above  the  green  elms  that  a  cottage  was  near, 
And   I  said,   "If  there's   peace  to  be  found  in  this  world, 

A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  there." 
CHORUS. — Ev'ry  leaf  was  at  rest,   and  I  heard   not  a  sound, 

But  a  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech  tree. 
"And  here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaim'd, 

"With  a  maid  that  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 
Who  would  blush  when  I  prais'd  her  and  weep  if  I  blam'd, 
How  blest  I  could  live  and  how  calm  I  could  die!" 
Ev'ry   leaf  was   at  rest,   etc. 


168  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

"By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,   whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I've   sighed  upon  innocent   lips, 
Which  ne'er  had  been  sigh'd  on  by  any  but  mine." 
Ev'ry    leaf   was  at   rest,    etc. 

HAS    SOKROW    THY    YOUNG    DAYS    SHADED. 

Has  sorrow  thy  young  days  shaded, 

As  clouds  o'er  the  morning  fleet? 
Too  fast  have  those  young  days  faded, 

That  even   in   sorrow  were   sweet. 
Does  Time  with  his  cold  wing  wither 

Each   feeling  that  once   was  dear? 
Then  child  of  misfortune,  come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear! 
Has  love  to  thy  soul  so  tender 

Been   like   a   Lagenian  mine, 
Where   sparkles   of   golden   splendor 

All  over  the  surface  shine? 
But  ff  in  pursuit  we  go  deeper, 

Allur'd  by  the  gleam  that  shone, 
Ah!  false  as  the  dream  of  the  sleeper, 

Like  Love,  the  bright  ore  is  gone. 
Has  Hope  like  the  bird  in  the  story, 

That  flitted  from  tree  to  tree, 
With  the  talisman's  glittering  glory — 

Has  Hope  been  that  bird  to  thee? 
On    branch    after    branch    alighting, 

The  gem  did  she  still  display, 
And    when,    nearest    and    most    inviting, 

Then  waft  the  fair  gem  away? 
If  thus  the  young  hours  have  fleeted, 

When   sorrow   itself  look'd   bright; 
If  thus  the  fair  hope  hath  cheated 

That  led  thee  along  so  light, 
If  thus  the  cold  world  now  wither 

Each  feeling  that  once  was  dear, 
Come,    child  of  misfortune,   come  hither, 

I'll  weep  with  thee,  tear  for  tear' 


SHANE  GLAS? 

Have  you  gaz'd  at  Shane  Gdass  as  he  went  to  the  fair, 

How  lively  his  step  and  how  careless  his  air? 

With  his  breast  full  of  favors  from  many  a  lass; 

Oh!  there's  not  a  sweet  girl  that  appears  on  the  green 

But  simpers   and   blushes   wherever   he's  seen; 

They  cry,  he's  the  boy,  our  darling  and  joy, 

Still   ready   to  sport  or  to  court  or  to  toy — 

Then  maids  of  the  mountain,  there's  for  you  Shane  Glas! 

Without  verses  no  poet  can  boast  of  the  name; 

Without  music   no  harper  the  title   can   claim — 

No  lover  thro'  life  without  quarrels  can  pass; 

The  gallant  whose  head  is  not  smash'd  for  the  fair 

Is  a  boaster  unworthy  their  favors  to  share. 

Then  Shane  is  the  lad  that  his  bruises  has  had, 

For  the  girls  and  drinking  have  made  him  half  mad, 

Then  maids  of  the  mountain,  there's  for  you  Shane  Glas! 

Have  you  chanc'd  on  your  way  handsome  Sally  to  meet, 

With  her  gown  snowy  white  and  her  nice  little  feet, 

When  she's  bound  to  the  fair  or  returning  from  Mass? 

With  her  smile  so  bewitching,  her  glances  so  bright, 

And  her   soft   cheeks   so  temptingly  fair  to  the   sight. 

Oh!  might  I  but  find  the  sweet  girl  to  my  mind 

In   yonder   green    hollywood    gently   reclin'd. 

What  joy  would  it  bring  to  the  heart  of  Shane  Glas! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  169 

HAVE   YOU   BEEN   AT   CARRICK? 

Have  you  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  you  my  true  love  there? 
And  saw  you  her  features  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair? 
Saw   you  the  most  fragrant  flow'ring   sweet  apple  tree; 
Oh!  saw  you  my  lov'd  one — and  pines  she  in  grief  like  me? 
Oh!  I've  been  at  Carrick,  and  saw  thy  own  true  love  there, 
And  saw,   too,  her  features  all  beautiful,  bright  and  fair; 
And  saw   the  most   fragrant   flow'ring  sweet  apple   tree; 
Oh!  I  saw  thy  lov'd  one— she  pines  not  in  grief,   like  thee! 
When  seeking  to  slumber  my  bosom  is  rent  with  sighs, 
I  toss  on  my  pillow  till  morning's  blest  beams  arise; 
No  aid,   bright  beloved!  can  reach  me  save  God  above, 
For  a  blood  lake  is  form'd  of  the  light  of  my  eyes  with  love! 
Lo!   yonder  the  maiden,  illustrious,  queen-like,  high, 
With  long  flowing  tresses  a-down  to  her  sandal  tie — 
Swan,   fair  as  the  lily,   descended  of  high  degree, 
A  myriad  of  welcomes,  dear  maid  of  my  heart,  to  thee! 


HE    CAME    FROM    THE    NORTH. 

He  came  from  the  North  and  his  words  were  few, 

But  his  voice  was  kind  and  his  heart  was  true; 

And  I   knew  by   his   eyes  no  guile  had  he, 

So  I  married  the  man  of  the  North  Countrle. 

Oh,   Garryowen  may  be  more  gay 

Than   this  quiet  street  of   Ballibay; 

And   I    know   the  sun    shines   softly   down 

On  the  river  that  passes  my  native  town. 

But  there's  not — I  say  it  with  joy  and  pride — 

Better  man  than  mine  in  Munster  wide; 

And   Limerick  Town  has   no   happier  hearth 

Than  mine  has  been  with  my  man  of  the  North. 

I  wish  that  in  Munster  they  only  knew 

The  kind,  kind  neighbors  I  came  unto; 

Small  hate  or  scorn  would  ever  be 

Between  the  South  and  the   North  Countrle. 


HUSH,   BABY  MINE. 


Hush,  baby  mine,  and  weep  no  more, 
Each   gem  thy  regal  fathers  wore 
When  Erin,  Emerald  Isle,  was  free, 
Thy  poet  sire  bequeaths  to  thee! 
CHORUS.— Hush!  baby  dear,  and  weep  no  more; 
Hush,   baby  mine,    my  treasur'd  store; 
My  heart-wrung  sigh,  my  grief,  my  groan, 
Thy  tearful  eye,  thy  hunger's  moan! 
The   steed   of  golden   housings  rare, 
Bestrode   by  glorious  Falvey  Fair, 
The  chief  who  at  the  Boyne  did  shroud 
In  bloody  wave  the  sea  kings  proud — 

Hush!   baby   dear,    etc. 
Brian's  golden-hilted  sword  of  light, 
That  flash'd  despair  on  foeman's  flight; 
And   Murcha's   fierce,   far-shooting  bow 
That  at  Clontarf  laid  heroes  low. 

Hush!    baby    dear,    etc. 

And  dainty  rich  and  beoir  I'll  bring, 
And  raiment  meet  for  chief  and  king; 
But  gift  and  song  shall   yield   to  joy — 
Thy  mother  comes  to  greet  her  boy! 
Hush!   baby   dear,    etc. 


179  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

HER    HAIR    WAS    LIKE    THE   BEATEN    GOLD. 

Her  hair  was  like  the  beaten  gold,  or  like  the  spider  spinning; 

It  was  in  her  you  might  behold  my  joys  and  woes  beginning. 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  diamond  bright,  her  form  was  like  the  fairy, 

That  flits  across  the  woods  at  night,  and  such  was  gentle  Mary. 

The  dewy  azure  of  her  eyes  was  like  a  sunbeam  glancing; 

it  thrill'd  my  soul  with  tender  love  to  see  her  smile  entrancing. 

Alas!  inconstant  as  the  breeze  that  kisses  ev'ry,  ev'ry  flower, 

She  frowned  on  me,  and  now  I  dare  not  e'en  approach  her  bower. 

Flee,   flee  up,   my  bonny  grey  cock 
And  craw  when  it  is  day; 

Your  neck  shall  be  like  the  bonny  beaten  gold, 
And  your  wings  of  the  silver  grey. 


LAMENT  FOR  IRELAND. 

How  dimm'd  is  the  glory  that  circled  the  Gael, 
And  fallen  the  high  people  of  green  Innisfail! 
The  sword  of  the  Saxon  is  red  with  their  gore, 
And  the  mighty  of  nations  is  mighty  no  more! 
Oh!  where  is  the  beauty  that  beam'd  on  thy  brow? 
Strong  hand  in  the  battle,  how  weak  art  thou  now! 
That  heart   is   now  broken   that  never   would   quail, 
And  thy  songs  are  now  turn'd  into  weeping  and  wail. 
We  know  not  our  country,  so  strange  is  her  face; 
Her  sons,  once  her  glory,  are  now  in  disgrace; 
Gone,  gone  is  the  beauty  of  fair  Innisfail, 
For  the  stranger  now  rules  in  the  land  of  the  Gael. 

DRAHERIN  0  MACHREE. 

I  grieve  when  I  think  on  the  dear  happy  days  of  youth, 
When  all  the  bright  dreams  of  this  faithless  world  seem'd  truth; 
When  I  stray'd  through  the  woodland,  as  gay  as  a  midsummer  bee. 
In  brotherly  love  with  my  Draherin  O  Machree! 

Together  we  lay  in  the  sweet-scented  meadows  to  rest, 
Together  we  watched  the  gay  lark  as  he  sung  o'er  his  nest, 
Together  we  pluck'd  the  red  fruit  of  the  fragrant  haw-tree, 
And  I  lov'd  as  a  sweetheart  my  Draherin  O  Machree! 

Oh!  sweet  were  his  words  as  the  honey  that  falls  in  the  night, 

And  his  young  smiling  face  like  the  May-bloom  was  fresh  and  as  bright; 

His  eyes  were  like  dew  on  the  flow'r  of  the  sweet  apple  tree; 

My  heart's  spring  and  summer  was   Draherin  O   Machree! 

He  went  to  the  wars  when  proud  England  united  with  France; 
His  regiment  was  first  in  the  red  battle  charge  to  advance; 
But  when  night,  drew  its  veil  o'er  the  gory  and  life-wasting  fray, 
Pale,   bleeding  and  cold  lay  my  Draherin  O  Machree! 

Now  I'm  left  to  weep  like  the  sorrowful  bird  of  the  night, 
This  earth  and  its  pleasures  no  more  shall  afford  me  delight; 
The  dark  narrow  grave  is  the  only  sad  refuge  for  me, 
Since  I  lost  my  heart's  darling — my   Draherin  O  Machree! 

MY  LOVE  SHE  WAS  BORN. 

My  love  she  was  born  in  the  north  countrie 
Where  hills  and  lofty  mountains  rise  up  from  the  sea; 
She's  the  fairest  young  maiden  that  e'er  I  did  see, 
She  exceeds  all  the  maidens  in  the  north  countrie. 

My  love  Is  as  sweet  as  the  cinnamon  tree; 
She  clings  to  me  close  as  the  bark  to  the  tree; 
But  the  leaves  they  will  wither,  the  roots  will  decay. 
And  fair  maidens'  beauty  will  soon  fade  away. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  171 

I    LOVE    MY    LOVE. 

I  love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

For  she,    like  morn,   is   fair, 
Her   blushing   cheek,    its   crimson   streak, 

Its   clouds,   her   golden  hair; 
Her  glance,  its  beam,  so  soft  and  kind, 

Her  tears,    its   dewy  show'rs, 
And   her  voice,   the  tender,   whisp'ring  wind 

That  stirs  the  early   bow'rs. 
I  love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

I  love  my  love  at  noon; 
For  she  is  bright  as  the  lord  of  night, 

Yet   mild    as    autumn's   moon; 
Her  beauty   is   my   bosom's   sun, 

Her   faith    my   fost'ring   shade, 
And   I  will  love  my  darling  one 

Till   ev'n   the  sun   shall   fade. 
I  love  my  love  in  the  morning, 

I   love  my  love   at  ev'n; 
Her  smile's  soft  play  is  like  the  ray 

That   lights   the   western  Heav'n; 
I  lov'd  her  when   the   sun  was  high, 

I   loved  her  when   he  rose, 
But  best  of  all  when  ev'ning's  sigh 

Was  murm'ring  at  its  close. 


IN   A   VALLEY   FAK   AWAY. 

In  a  valley,  far  away, 

With  my  Maire  bhan  a  stfiir, 
Short  would  be  the  summer  day, 

Ever  loving  evermore. 
Winter  days  would  all  grow  long. 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour, 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song, 

And  her  loving  maith  go  Ie6r. 
CHORUS. — Fond  is  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir, 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir, 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore, 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  a  stfiir. 

Oh!  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone, 
But  her  brother  bravely  vow'd 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone; 
For  he  knew  I  lov'd  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  lov'd  me  too. 
So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  'twas  all  in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir, 
Had  I  wings  I'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad   Missouri   flows. 
Thro'  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise 

From  our  hearth  with  maith  go  lefir, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 

Of  my  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir. 

Mild  is  Maire  bhan  a  stCir, 
Mine  is  Maire  bhan  a  st6ir, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhdn  a  st6ir. 


172  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

I  LOVE  TO  WANDER. 

I  love  to  wander  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
And  hear  the  waves  that  break  upon  the  shore, 
Their  heaving  breasts  reflect  each  starry  ray. 
And  seem  to  speak  of  years  long  past  away. 
In  dreamy  thought  my  early  friends  appear. 
And  all  I  lov'd  on  earth  again  are  near, 
As  oft  with  me  they  watch'd  the  billows  foam, 
That  roll'd  so  wildly  round  our  island  home. 
I  see  their  smile  as  oft  it  beam'd  before, 
I  hear  their  voice  amid  the  ocean's  roar; 
And  half  forget  while  gazing  on  the  waves 
That  all   I  lov'd  are  sleeping  ia   their  graves. 

I    ONCE   LOVED   A   BOY. 

I  once  lov'd  a  boy,  and  a  bonny,  bonny  boy, 

Who'd  come  and  go  at  my  request; 
I  lov'd  him  so  well,  and  so  very,  very  well, 

That  I  built  him  a  bower  in  my  breast,  in  my  breast, 

That  I  built  him  a  bower  in  my  breast. 
I  once  lov'd  a  boy,  and  a  bonny,  bonny  boy, 

And   a  boy   that   I   thought  was   my   own; 
But  he  loves  another  girl  better  than  me, 

And  has  taken  his  flight  and  is  gone,  and  is  gone, 

And  has  taken  his  flight,  and  is  gone. 
The  girl  that  has  taken  my  own  bonny  boy, 

Let  her  make  of  him  all  that  she  can; 
For  whether  he  loves  me,  or  loves  me  not, 

I'll  walk  with  my  love  now  and  then,  now  and  then, 

I'll  walk  with  my  love  now  and  then. 


THE   WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

I've  come  unto  my  house  again  and  find  myself  alone — 
The  friends  I  left  in  quiet  there  are  perish'd  all  and  gone — 
My  father's  house  is  tenantless,  my  early  love  lies  low — 
But  one  remains  of  all   that  made  my   youthful   spirit  glow. 
My  love  lies  in  the  blushing  west,  dres't  in  a  robe  of  green — 
And  pleasant  waters  sing  to  her  and  know  her  for  their  queen. 
The  wild  winds  fan  her  face  that  o'er  the  distant  billows  come — 
She  is  my   last  remaining  love,  my  own,  my  island  home! 
And  when  I  lift  my  voice  and  sing  unto  thy  silent  shades— 
And    echo   wakens   merrily   in   all   thy   drowsy   shades. 
There's  not  a  rill,  a  vale,  a  hill,  a  wild  wood,  or  still  grove, 
But  gives  again  the  bursting  strain  and  yields  me  love  for  love. 
Oh!   I  have  seen   the  maiden   of  my   bosom  pine  and   die — 
And  I  have  seen  my  bosom  friend  look  on  me  doubtingly, 
And  long,  oh,   long,  have  all  my  young  affections  found  a  tomb — 
Yet  thou  art  all  in  all  to  me,  my  own,   my  island  home. 


I'LL  NOT  REVEAL. 

I'll  not  reveal  my  true  love's  name, 
Betimes  'twill  swell  the  voice  of  fame; 
But,  oh!  may  heav'n,  my  grief  to  quell, 
Restore  the  hero  safe  and  well, 
But,  oh!  may  heav'u,  my  grief  to  quell, 
Restore  the  hero  safe  and  well. 
CHORUS.— My  hero  brave,  ma  ghile  m'fhear, 

My  kindred  love,  ma  ghile  m'fhear; 

What  wringing  woes  my  bosom  knows 
i     Since  cross'd  the  sea  ma  ghile  m'fhear; 

What  wringing  woes  by  bosom  knows, 

Since  cross'd  the  sea  ma  ghile  m'fhear. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  173 

His  glancing  eye  I  may  compare 
To  diamond  dews  on  rosebuds  rare; 
And  love  and  valour  brighten  o'er 
The  features  of  my  bosom's  store, 
And  love  and  valour  brighten  o'er 
The  features  of  my  bosom's  store. 

My  hero  brave,  etc. 
No  cuckoo's  note  by  fell  or  flood, 
No  hunter's  cry  thro'  hazelwood, 
Nor  mist-wrapt  valley  yields  me  joy, 
Since  cross'd  the  seas  my  royal  boy, 
Nor  mist-wrapt  valley  yields  me  joy, 
Since  cross'd  the  seas  my  royal  boy. 

My  hero  brave,  etc. 

Wake  wake  the  wild  harp's  wildest  sound, 
Send  sparkling  flagons  flowing  round, 
Fill  high  the  wine-cup's  tide  of  joy — 
This  health  to  thee,  my  royal  boy, 
Fill  high  the  wine-cup's  tide  of  joy, — 
This  health  to  thee,  my  royal  boy. 


IRISH  LULLABY. 

I'll  put  you  myself,  my  baby!  to  slumber, 
Not  all  is  done  by  the  clownish  number — 
A  yellow  blanket  and  coarse  sheet  bringing, 
But  in  golden  cradle  that's  softly  swinging. 
CHORUS.— To  and  fro,  lulla  lo. 

To  and  fro,  my  bonnie  baby! 
To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  own  sweet  baby! 
I'll  put  you  myself,  my  baby!  to  slumber, 
On  sunniest  days  of  the  pleasant  summer; 
Your  golden  cradle  on  smooth  lawn  laying, 
'Neath  murmuring  boughs,  that  the  winds  are  swaying. 

To  and  fro,  etc. 

Slumber,  my  babe!  may  the  sweet  sleep  woo  you, 
And  from  your  slumbers  may  health  come  to  you! 
May  all  diseases  now  flee  and  fear  you; 
May  sickness  and  sorrow  never  come  near  you! 

To  and  fro,  etc. 

Slumber,  my  babe,  may  the  sweet  sleep  woo  you, 
And  from  your  slumbers  may  health  come  to  you! 
May  bright  dreams  come,  and  come  no  other, 
And  I  be  never  a  childless  mother. 

To  and  fro,  etc. 


THE  DARK  FAIRY  KATH. 

Long,  long  have  I  wander'd  in  search  of  my  love, 

O'er  moorland  and  mountain,  thro"  greenwood  and  grove, 

From  the  banks  of  the  Maig  unto  Finglas's  flood, 

I  have  ne'er  seen  the  peer  of  this  Child  of  the  Wood. 

One  bright  summer  evening  alone  on  my  path, 

My  steps  led  me  on  to  the  Dark  Fairy's  Rath; 

And  seated  a-near  it,  my  fair  one  I  found, 

With  her  long  golden  locks  trailing  down  to  the  ground. 

And  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  thought  on  her  charms, 

"Oh,  how  fondly  I'd  lock  this  young  lass  in  my  arms; 

How  I'd  love  her  deep  eyes,  full  of  radiance  and  mirth, 

Like  new  risen  stars  that  shine  down  upon  earth." 

Then  I  twin'd  round  her  waist  my  arms  as  a  zone, 

As  I  fondly  embraced  her  to  make  her  my  own; 

But  when  I  glanc'd  up,  behold!   nought  could  I  see, 

She  had  fled  from  my  sight  like  the  bird  from  the  tree! 


174  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

IT    CHANCED    WHEN    I    WAS    WALKING. 

It  chanc'd  when  I  was  walking  down  by  the  river-side, 

Amid  the  scented  bushes,  an  Irish  girl  I  spied; 

Her  cheeks  were  bright  and  rosy,  and  yellow  was  her  hair, 

And  graceful  was  the  green  robe  my  Irish  girl  did  wear. 

And  when  I  gently  ask'd  her  if  she  would  go  with  me, 

She  laughingly  responded,  "Good  sir,  but  I'm  not  free; 

For  Dennis  is  my  husband,  and  tho'  he's  aged  and  old, 

I  will  not  lose  my  good  name  for  all  your  love  and  gold." 

Oh,  were  my  love  a  rosebud,  and  in  the  garden  grew, 

And  I  the  happy  gard'ner,  to  her  I  would  be  true. 

There's  not  a  month  throughout  the  year,  but  I'd  my  love  renew, 

With  lilies  I  would  garnish  her,— Sweet  William,  thyme,  and  rue. 

TOP  0'  THE  MORNIN'. 

Th'   anam  au  Dhia!    but  there  it  Is, 

The  dawn  on  the  hills  of  Ireland! 
God's  angels  lifting  the  night's  black  veil 

From   the   fair,    sweet   face   of   my    sireland; 
Oh,   Ireland,   isn't  it  grand  you  look, 

Like  a  bride  in   her  rich  adornin', 
And  with  all  the  pent-up  love   of  my  heart, 

I  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  mornin'. 

This  one  short  hour  pays  lavishly  back 

For  many  a  year  of  mourning; 
I'd  almost   venture  another  flight, 

There's   so  much   joy   in   returning — 
Watching  out  for  the  hallowed  shore 

All   other  attractions  scornin'; 
Oh,  Ireland,  don't  you  hear  me  shout? 

I  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  mornin'. 

Now  fuller  and  truer  the  shcre  line  shown — 

Was  ever  a  scene  so  splendid? 
I  feel  the  breath  of  the  Munster  breeze, 

Thank  God   that   my  exile's  ended. 
Old  scenes,  old  songs,  old  friends  again. 

The   vale  and  cot  I  was  born  in! 
Oh,   Ireland,  up  from  my  heart  of  hearts, 

I  bid  you  the  top  o'  the  mornin'. 


OH!    'TIS   SWEET    TO    THINK. 

Oh!     'tis   sweet  to   think   that  where'er   we   rove. 

We  are  sure  to  find  something  blissful  and  dear. 
And  that,  when  we're  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near! 
The  heart,  like  a  tendril,  accustom'd  to  cling, 

Let  it  grow  where  it  will,  cannot  flourish  alone, 
But  will  lean  to  the  nearest  and  loveliest  thing 

It  can  twine  with  itself  and  make  closely  its  own. 
CHORUS.— Then  oh,  what  pleasure,  where'er  we  rove, 

To  be  doom'd  to  find  something  still  that  Is  dear; 
And  to  know,  when  far  from  the  lips  we  love, 

We  have  but  to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are  near! 

'Twere  a  shame,  when  flowers  around  us  rise, 

To  make  light  of  the  rest  if  the  rose  is  not  there, 
And  the  world's  so  rich  in  resplendent  eyes, 

'Twere  a  pity  to  limit  one's  love  to  a  pair. 
Love's  wing  and  the  peacock's  are  nearly  alike, 

They  are  both  of  them  bright,  but  they're  changeable,  too; 
And  wherever  a  new  beam  of  beauty  can  strike 

It  will  tincture  love's  plume  with  a  different  hue. 

Then  oh,  what  pleasure,  «tc. 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER.  175 

LAY  HIS  SWORD  BY  HIS  SIDE. 

Lay  his  sword  by  his  side, — it  hath  serv'd  him  too  well  not  to  rest  near 

his  pillow  below; 
To  the  last  moment  true,   from  his  hand  ere  it  fell,   its  point  still  was 

turn'd  to  a  flying  foe. 
Fellow  lab'rers  in  life,  let  them  slumber  in  death  side  by  side,  as  becomes 

the  reposing  brave; 
The   sword    which    he    loved,    still    unbroke   in    his    sheath,    and   himself 

unsubdued  in  his  grave. 

Yet  pause,  for  in  fancy  a  still  voice  I  hear,  as  if  breath'd  from  his  brave 

heart's  remains; 
Paint  echo  of  that  which  in  Slavery's  ear,  once  sounded  the  war-word, 

"Burst  your  chains." 
And  it  cries,  from  the  grave  where  the  hero  lies,  "Tho"  the  day  of  ycur 

chieftain  for  ever  hath  set, 
Oh!  leave  not  his  sword  thus  inglorious  to  sleep,  it  hath  victory's  life  in 

it  yet!' 

"Should  some  alien  unworthy  such  weapon  to  wield,  dare  to  touch  thee, 

my  own  gallant  sword. 
Then  rest  in  thy  sheath,  like  a  talisman  seal'd,  or  return'd  to  the  grave 

of  thy  chainless  lord. 
But  if  grasp'd  by  a  hand  that  hath  known  the  bright  use  of  a  falchion 

like  thee,  on  the  battle  plain, — 
Then,  at  Liberty's  summons,  like  lightning  let  loose,  leap  forth  from  thy 

dark  sheath  again." 


MY  COUNTRYMEN,  AWAKE! 

My  countrymen  awake!  arise!  our  work  begins  anew; 
Your  mingled  voices  rend  the  skies,  your  hearts  are  firm  and  true, 
You've  bravely  marched,  and  nobly  met,  our  little  green  isle  through; 
But,  oh!  my  friends,  there's  something  yet  for  Irishmen  to  do! 

As  long  as  Erin  hears  the  chink  of  base  ignoble  chains, — 
As  long  as  one  detested  link  of  foreign  rule  remains, — 
As  long  as  of  our  rightful  debt  one  smallest  fraction's  due, 
So  long,  my  friends,  there's  something  yet  for  Irishmen  to  do! 

Too  long  we've  borne  the  servile  yoke, — too  long  the  slavish  chain, — 
Too  long  in  feeble  accents  spoke,  and  ever  spoke  in  vain; — 
Our  wealth  has  filled  the  spoiler's  net,  and  gorg'd  the  Saxon  crew; 
But  oh!  my  friends,  we'll  teach  them  yet  what  Irishmen  can  do! 

There's  not  a  man  of  all  our  land  our  country  now  can  spare; 

The  strong  man  with  his  sinewy  hand,  the  weak  man  with  his  pray'r! 

No  whining  tone  of  mere  regret,  yourg  Irish  bards,   for  you; 

But  let  your  songs  teach  Ireland  yet  what  Irishmen  should  do! 

FAIRY  HAUNTS. 

My  home's  on  the  mountain,  my  dance  by  the  fountain, 

The  music  I  dote  on  is  sung  by  the  rill, 
The  gambols  I  squander  are  by  the  well  yonder, 

Where  leans  the  grey  oak  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
Of  the  flow'rs  of  the  willow  I  weave  my  light  pillow, 

My  slumbers  are  winged,  and  fleeting,  and  blest, 
And  sunlight  adorning  the  bow'rs  of  young  morning, 

I  wing  my  way  back  to  the  hills  I  love  best. 

I  love  to  rove  only  at  midnight  when  lonely, 

And  play  with  the  moon  in  the  old  Abbey  wall, 
The  olden  days  seeming,  methinks,  the  harp's  dreaming, 

Its  long  faded  dirges  in  bowr'  and  in  hall. 
Where  youth's  grave  lies  wrinkled,  with  snow  garland  sprinkled, 

I  love  to  still  linger  till  twilight  appears, 
Wherever  woe  weepeth,  or  fair  virtue  sleepeth, 

They  belong  not  to  night,  they're  my  own  dewy  tears. 


176  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MY   GENTLE   HARP. 

My  gentle  harp!  once  more  I  waken 

The  sweetness  of  thy  slumb'ring  strain; 
In  tears  our  last  farewell  was  taken, 

And  now  in  tears  we  meet  again. 
No  light  of  Joy  hath  o'er  thee  broken, 

But  like  those  harps  whose  heav'nly  skill 
Of  slav'ry  dark  as  thine  hath  spoken. 

Thou  hangst  upon  the  willows  still. 

And  yet  since  last  thy  chord  resounded 

An  hour  of  praise  and  triumph  came, 
And  many  an  ardent  bosom  bounded 

With  hopes  that  now  are  turn'd  to  shame. 
Yet  even  then,  while  peace  was  singing 

Her  halcyon  song  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Tho"  joy  and  hope  to  others  bringing, 

She  only  brought  new  tears  to  thee. 

But  come, — if  yet  thy  frame  can  borrow 

One  breath  of  joy,  oh  breathe  for  me, 
And  show  the  world  in  chains  and  sorrow, 

How  sweet  thy  music  still  can  be. 
How  gaily  ev'n,  'mid  gloom  surrounding, 

Thou  yet  canst  wake  at  pleasure's  thrill, 
Like  Memnon's  broken  image  sounding 

Mid  desolation  tuneful  still. 


MY    LOVE'S    THE   FAIREST    CREATURE. 

My  love's  the  fairest  creature. 

And  round  her  flutters  many  a  charm, 
Her  starry  eyes,  blue  beaming, 

Can  e'en  the  coldest  bosom  warm. 
Her  lips  is  like  a  cherry, 

Ripely  suing  to  be  cull'd, 
Her  cheek  is  like  a  May  rose, 

In  dewy  freshness  newly  pull'd. 

Her  sigh  is  like  the  sweet  gale 

That  dies  upon  the  violet's  breast, 
Her  hair  is  like  the  dark  mist 

On  which  the  evening  sunbeams  rest; 
Her  smile  is  like  the  false  light, 

Which  lures  the  traveler  by  its  beam; 
Her  voice  is  like  a  soft  strain 

Which  steals  its  soul  from  passion's  dream. 


0,  WEARILY,   WEARILY. 

Oh,  wearily,  wearily  lags  the  day, 
When  the  one  we  love  is  far  away; 
The  sun  has  set,  and  the  daylight  is  gone, 
And  I  am  here,  and  here  alone. 

The  sun  has  set  and  the  daylight  is  gone. 
And  I  am  here,  and  here  alone, 
Oh,  ulla  gone, 
Oh,  ulla  gone. 

I  am  winding  my  thread  on  this  willow  wand, 
But  ever  it  breaks  in  my  trembling  hand; 
Away  to-morrow  the  task  will  be  o'er, 
To-night,  alas!  I  can  wind  no  more. 

Away  to-morrow  the  task  will  be  o'er, 
To-night,  alas!    I  can  wind  no  more. 
Oh,  ulla  gone, 
Ob,  ulla  gone, 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER.  177 

NAY,  TELL  ME  NOT,  DEAR. 

Nay,  tell  me  not,  dear,  that  the  goblet  drowns 

One  charm  of  feeling,  one  fond  regret; 
Believe  me,  a  few  of  thy  angry  frowns 
Are  all  I've  sunk  In  its  bright  wav«  yet, 
Ne'er  hath  a  beam 
Been  lost  in  the  stream 

That  ever  was  shed  from  thy  form  or  soul; 
The  balm  of  thy  sighs, 
The  spell  of  thine  eyes, 

Still  float  on  the  surface,  and  hallow  my  bowl; 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me; 
Like  founts,  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 

The  bowl  but  brightens  my  love  for  thee! 
They  tell  us  that  Love,  in  his  fairy  bower 

Had  two  blush  roses  of  birth  divine; 
He  sprinkles  the  one  with  a  rainbow's  shower 
Bat  bathed  the  other  with  mantling  wine. 
Soon   did  the   buds 
That    drank    of    the    floods 

Distilled  by  the  rainbow  decline  and  fade; 
While  those  which   the   tide 
Of  ruby  had  dyed 

All  blush'd  into  beauty,  like  the  sweet  maid; 
Then  fancy  not,  dearest,  that  wine  can  steal 
One  blissful  dream  of  the  heart  from  me; 
Like  founts  that  awaken  the  pilgrim's  zeal, 
The   bowl   but   brightens   my   love  for  thee! 

MY   OWN. 

By  the  strange  beating  of  my  heart, 

Finding   no   place  for  all   its   joy   — 
By  those   soft  tears  that  wet   my  cheek, 

Like  dews   from   Summer  sky — 
By  this  wild  rush   through  every  vein — 

This  chok'd   and   trembling   tone, 
Surcharg'd  with  bliss  it  cannot  tell — 

I  feel  thou   art  my  own. 
And  yet  it  cannot  all  be  true, 

I've  dream'd  a  thousand  wilder  dreams; 
But  this  is  brighter,  wilder  far, 

Than  even  the  wildest  seems. 
I've  dream'd  of  wonders,  spirit-climes, 

Of  glories   and  of   blisses  won; 
But  ne'er  before  did  vision  come, 

To  say  thou  wert  my  own! 
My  own!  my  own!  thus  gazing  on, 

My   life-breath  seems  to  ebb  away; 
And  o'er  and  o'er,  and  still  again, 

The  same   dear   words   I   say! 
I  know — I  know  it  must  be  true, 

And  here,   with  Heaven  and  Love  alone, 
I  hold  thee  next  my  heart  of  hearts, 

For  tbou  art  all  my  own! 

CUSHLA^MO^CHR^E. 

Ky  the  green  banks  of  Shannon  I  wooed  thee,  dear  Mary, 

When  the  sweet  birds  were  singing  in  summer's  gay  pride, 
From  those  green  banks  I  turn  now,  heart-broken  and  dreary, 

As  the  sun  sets  to  weep  o'er  the  grave  of  my  bride. 
Idly  the  sweet  birds  around  me  are  singing; 

Summer,   like  winter,   is  cheerless  to  me; 
I  heed  not  if  snow  falls,   or  flow'rets  are  springing. 

For  my  heart's-light  is  darkened— my  Cushla-mo-chree! 


178  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

O!  bright  shone  the  morning  when  first  as  my  bride,  love. 

Thy  foot,  like  a  sunbeam,  my  threshold  cross'd  o'er, 
And  blest  on  our  hearth  fell  that  soft  eventide,  love, 

When  first  on  my  bosom  thy  heart  lay,  asthore! 
Restlessly  now,  on  my  lone  pillow  turning, 

Wear  the  night-watches,  still  thinking  on  thee; 
And  darker  than  night,  breaks  the  light  of  the  morning, 

For  my  aching  eyes  find  thee  not,  Cushla-mo-chree! 
O,  my  loved  one!  my  lost  one!  say,  why  didst  thou  leave  m» 

To  linger  on   earth  with  my  heart  in  the  grave! 
O!  would  thy  cold  arms,  love,  might  ope  to  receive  me 

To  my  rest  'neath  the  dark  boughs  that  over  thee  wave. 
Still  from  our  once  hapy  dwelling  I  roam,  love, 

Evermore  seeking,  my  own  bride,  for  thee; 
Ah,  Mary!  wherever  thou  art  is  my  home,  love. 

And  I'll  soon  lie  beside  thee,  my  Cushla-mo-chree! 


OH!   PROUD   WERE   THE    CHIEFTAINS. 

Oh,    proud   were   the   chieftains   of   green   Innisfail, 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

The  stars  of  our  sky,  and  the  salt  of  our  soil, 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

Their  hearts  were  as  soft  as  a  child  in  the  lap, 

Yet  they  were  "the  men  in  the  gap"— 

And  now  that  the  cold  clay  their  limbs  doth  enwrap- 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

'Gainst   England   long  battling,    at  length   they  went   down; 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

But  they  left  their  deep  tracks  on  the  road  of  renown, 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

We  are  heirs  of  their  fame,  if  we're  not  of  their  race— 

And  deadly  and  deep  our  disgrace, 

If  we  live  o'er  their  sepulchres,  abject  and  base; — 
As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

How  fair  were  the  maidens  of  fair  Innisfail! 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 
As  fresh  and  as  free  as  the  sea-breeze  from  soil; 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

Oh!    are  not  our  maidens  as  fair  and  as  pure? 
Can  our  music  no  longer  allure? 
And  can  we  but  sob,  as  such  wrongs  we  endure? 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 
Their  famous,  their  holy,  their  dear  Innisfail, 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 
Shall  it  still  be  a  prey  for  the  stranger  to  spoil? 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 

Sure,  brave  men  would  labour  by  night  and  by  day 
To   banish  that  stranger  away; 
Or,  dying  for  Ireland,  the  future  would  say, 

As  throoa  gon  ira  na  vara! 


ROISIN   DUBH. 

Oh!  my  sweet  little  rose,  cease  to  pine  for  the  past, 

For  the  friends  that  come  eastward  shall  see  thee  at  last; 

They  bring  blessings,  they  bring  favours  which  the  past  never  knew, 

To  pour  forth  in  gladness  on  my  Roisin  Dubh. 

There's  no  flower  that  e'er  bloom'd  can  my  rose  excel, 

There's  no  tongue  that  e'er  mov'd  half  my  love  can  tell; 

Had  I  strength,   had  I  skill  the  wide  world  to  subdue, 

Oh!  the  queen  of  that  wide  world  should  be  Roisin  Dubh, 

The  mountains,  high  and  misty,  tho'  the  moors  must  go, 

The  rivers  run  backward,   and  the  lakes  overflow; 

And  the  wild  waves  of  old  ocean  wear  a  crimson  hue, 

E'er  the  world  sees  the  ruin  of  my  Roisin  Dubh. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  179 

OH!    AMBER-HAIR'D   NORA. 

Obi  amber-hair'd  Nora, 

That  thy  fair  head  could  rest 
On  the  arm  that  would  shelter 

Or  circle  thy  breast: 
Thou  hast  stol'n  all  my  brain,  IOT«, 

And  then  left  me  lon'e — 
Tho'  I'd  cross  o'er  the  main,  lov» 

To  call  thee  my  own. 
My  fair  one  is  dwelling 

By  Moy's  lovely  vale, 
Her  rich  locks  of  amber 

Have  left  my  cheek  pale; 
May  the  king  of  the  Sabbath 

Yet  grant  me  to  see 
My  herds  in  the  green  lanei 

Of  fair  Baileath  Buidhe! 


OH!    LOVE   IS   A   HUNTER   BOY. 

Oh!  Love  is  a  hunter  boy 

Who  makes  young  hearts  his  prey; 
And  in  his  nets  of  joy 

Ensnares  them  night  and  day. 
In  vain  conceal'd  they  lie, 

Love  tracks  them  ev'rywhere; 
In  vain  aloft  they  fly,— 

Love  shoots  them  flying  there. 

But  'tis  his  joy  most  sweet, 

At   early   dawn   to   trace 
The  print  of  Beauty's  feet 

And   give   the  trembler   chase. 
And   if,    thro"   virgin    snow, 

She  tracks  her  footsteps  fair, 
How  sweet  for  love  to  know 

None   went  before   him   there. 


MARY   OF   LIMERICK   TOWN. 

One  morning  in  July  alone  as  I  strayed 
By  the  banks  of  the  Shannon.  I  met  a  fair  maid; 
Her  cheeks  were  like  roses,  her  hair  a  dark  brown; 
She  is  beautiful  Mary  of  sweet  Lim'rick  town. 

As  she  tripp'd  o'er  the  meadows  so  green  and  so  gay, 

She  far  outshone  Flora,  the  goddess  of  May. 

I  told  her  I'd  freely  resign  a  king's  crown 

To  be  lov'd  by  fair  Mary  of  sweet  Lim'rick  town. 

"Forbear,  sir,"  she  said,  "for  your  suit  is  in  vain, 
For  the   lad  that  I   love  is  cross'd  over  the  main. 
In  London  he  married  a  maid  of  renown, 
Therefore  I  will  live  single  in  sweet  Lim'rick  town." 

Then  finding  the  maiden  so  loyal  and  true, 
I  said,    "Sweetheart   Mary,    I've   returned  to  you. 
These  seven  lone  years,  love,  I've  rav'd  up  and  down, 
But  my  heart  was  still  with  you  in  sweet  Lim'rick  town.' 

Then  she  flew  in  my  arms — with  joy  and  surprise, 
And  on  me  she  gaz'd  with  her  bright  sparkling  eyes, 
By  the  banks  of  the  Shannon  together  we  sat  down, 
On  a  bank  of  primroses  by  sweet  Lim'rick  town. 

Soon  alter,  with  great  joy,  together  we  went, 
And  married  we  were,  with  her  parents'  consent; 
We  have  great  stores  of  riches  our  pleasures  to  crown. 
And  now  live  in  splendor  in  sweet  Lim'rick  town. 


(SO  HYLAND'a    MAMMOTH 

FOR   IRELAND   I'D   NOT   TELL. 

One  eve  as  I  happen'd  to  stray 

On   the  banks  that  are  bordering  mine, 
A  maiden  came  full   in  my  way, 

Who  left  me  in  anguish  to  pine, 
The   slave  of  the  charms  and  the  mein, 

And  the  silver-ton'd  voice  of  the  dame; 
To  meet  her  I  sped  o'er  the  green, 

Yet  for  Ireland  I'd  not  tell  her  name! 
A  maiden  young,  tender,  refin'd, 

On  the  lands  that  are  bordering  mine, 
Hath  virtues  and  graces  of  mind, 

And   features    surpassingly   fine. 
Blent  amber  and  yellow   compose 

The  ringleted  hair  of  the  dame, 
Her  cheek  hath  the  bloom  of  the  rose, 

Yet  for  Ireland  I'd  not  tell  her  name! 


ONE   NIGHT    IN   MY    YOUTH. 

One  night  in  my  youth  as  I  rov'd  with  my  merry  pipe, 
List'ning  the  echoes  that  rang  to  the  tune, 

I   met   Kitty   More   with   her   two    lips    so    cherry   ripe; 
"Phelim,"   says  she,   "give  us   Ellen  Aroon." 

"Dear  Kitty,"  says  I,  "thou'rt  so  charmingly  free; 
Now,  if  thou  wilt  deign  thy  sweet  voice  to  the  measure, 
'Twill  make  all  the  echoes  run  giddy  with  pleasure, 

For  none  in  fair  Erin  can  sing  it  like  thee!" 

My  chanter  I  plied  with  my  heart  beating  gaily, 
I  pip'd  up  the  strain  while  so  sweetly  she  sung, 

The  soft  melting  melody  flll'd  all  the  valley, 
The  green  woods  around  us  in  harmony  rung. 

Methought  that  she  verily  charm'd  up  the  moon! 
Now,  still  as  I  wander  in  village  or  city, 
When  good  people  call  for  gome  favorite  ditty, 

I  give  them  sweet  Kitty  and  Ellen  Aroon. 


HUNTING  SONGS. 

The  first  day  of  spring  in  the  year  Ninety-three, 
The  first  recreation  was  in  this  countrie; 
The  King's  county  gentlemen  o'er  hills,  dales  and  rocks, 
They  rode  out  so  jovially  in  search  of  a  fox. 
CHORUS.— Tally-ho,  hark  away!  Tally-ho!  hark  away! 

Tally-ho,  hark  away,  my  boys,  away,  hark  away! 
When  Reynard  was  started  he  faced  Tullamore, 
And  Arklow  and  Wicklow  along  the   seashore, 
We  kept  his  brush   in   view  ev'ry  yard  of  the  way. 
And  he  straight  took  his  course  through  the  street  of  Roscrea. 

Tally-ho,  hark  away,  etc. 

But  Reynard,  sly  Reynard,  lay  hid  there  that  night, 
Ana  they  swore  they  would  watch  him  until  the  daylight; 
So  early  next  morning  the  woods  did  resound 
With  the  echo  of  horns  and  the  sweet  cry  of  hounds. 

Tally-ho,  hark  away,  etc. 

When  Reynarfl  was  taken  his  wishes  to  fulfil 
He  called  for  ink  and  paper  and  pen  to  write  his  will; 
And  what  he  made  mention  of  they  found  it  no  blank, 
For  he  gave  them  a  cheque  on  the  national  bank. 

Tally-ho,  hark  away,  etc. 

"To  you,    Mister   Casey,  I  give  my  whole  estate, 
And  to  ycru,  young  O'Brien,  my  money  and  my  plate; 
I  give  to  you.   Sir  Francis,  my  whip,  spurs  and  cap, 
For  you  crpss'd  walls  and  ditches  and  ne'er  looked  for  a  gap!' 

Tally-ho,  hark  away,   etc. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  181 

ONE    SUNDAY   AFTER   MASS. 

One  Sunday  after  mass, 
As  Dermot  and  his  lass 
Thro*  the  greenwood  did  pass, 

All  alone,  and  all  alone, 

All   alone,   and  all   alona. 
He  asked  her  for  a  p6g, 
But  she   call'd  him   a  rogue, 
And  she  beat  him  with  her  brogue, 

Och    hone,    and   och   hone! 

Och  hone,   and   och  hone! 
Said  he,   "My  dear  joy, 
Why  will   you  be   so  coy? 
Let  us  play,   let  us  toy, 

All  alone,  and  all  alone, 

All  alone,  and  all  alone." 
"Now   Dermot,    dear,    be   good, 
You  know  you   really  should, 
You  must  not  be  so  rude, 

Och    hone,    and   och  hone! 

Och   hone,   and   och  hone! 
He  bribed  her  with  nuts. 
He    bribed   her   with    sloes, 
Till    Katie    smiling    rose, 

Och   hone,   and  och   hone, 

Och   hone,    and  och   hone. 
And   now   he   sees   her   wish, 
Not  thinking  it  amiss, 
Her   cherry    lips   does   kiss, 

Och   hone,    and   och  hone! 

Och   hone,   and   och  hone! 

ANNIE  DEAR. 

Our   mountain   brooks   were    rushing,    Annie   dear, 
The  autumn  eve  was  flushing,  Annie  dear, 

But  brighter  was  your   blushing, 

When   first  your   murmurs   hushing, 
I  told  my  love  outgushing,  Annie  dear. 
Ah!  but  our  hopes  were  splendid,  Annie  dear, 
How  sadly  they  have  ended,  Annie  dear, 

The  ring  betwixt  us  broken, 

When  vows  of  love  were  spoken, 
Of  your  hearf  was  a  token,  Annie  dear. 
For  once  when   home  returning,   Annie  dear, 
I  found  our  cottage  burning,  Annie  dear, 

Around  it  were  the  yeomen, 

Of  ev'ry  ill   and  omen, 
The  country's  bitter  foemen,  Annie  dear. 
But  why  arose  a  morrow,  Annie  dear, 
Upon  that  night  of  sorrow,   Annie  dear, 

Far   better   by   thee   lying, 

Their   bayonets  defying, 
Than  live  in  exile  sighing,  Annie  dear. 

THE    EARTH    IS    FAIR   AROUND    US. 

The  earth  is  fair  around  us,  the  sun  is  bright  above, 

But  more  glorious  is  our  happiness,  more  glowing  is  our  love. 

Your  eyes — your  eyes  so  tender,  look  fondly  into  mine, 

And  they  clasp  me  like  a  blessing,  those  darling  hands  of  thine. 

Are  you  glad  to  be  so  near  me?    For  your  smile  is  very  bright, 

And  a  smile  is  sometimes  coming,  as  of  newly  found  delight. 

And  I  felt  yotir  light  hand  trembling  tho'  so  fearless  is  my  own: 

Are  you  glad  to  be  so  near  me?    Would  you  grieve  if  I  were  gone? 


182  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

SILENCE  IS  IN  OUR  FESTAL  HALLS. 

Silence  is  in  our  festal  halls, 

Oh!   son  of  song,  thy  course  ia  o'er, 
In  vain  on  thee  sad  Erin  calls. 

Her  minstrel's  voice  responds  no  mor«; 
All  silent  as  th'  Eolian  shell 

Doth  sleep  at  close,  at  close  of  soma  bright  day, 
When  the  sweet  breeze  that  wak'd  its  swell. 

At  sunny  morn  hath  died  away. 

Yes,   Erin,  thine  alone  the  fame, 

Or  if  thy  bard  have  shar'd  the  crown, 
From   thee  the  borrowed   glory  came, 

And  at  thy  feet  is  now  laid  down. 
Enough  if  Freedom  still  inspire 

His  latest  song,  and  still  there  be, 
As  evening  closes   round   his   lyre. 

One  ray  upon  its  chords  from  th«*. 


THE   FAIRIES   ARE   DANCING. 

The  fairies  are  dancing  by  brake  and  by  bow'r, 
By  brake  and  by  bow'r,  by  brake  and  by  bow'r, 
The  fairies  are  dancing  by  brake  and  by  bow'r, 
For  this  in  their  land  is  the  merriest  hour. 
Their  steps  are  so  soft  and  their  robes  are  so  bright, 
Their  robes  are  so  bright,  their  robes  are  so  bright. 
Their  steps  are  so  soft  and  their  robes  are  so  bright, 
As  they  trip  it  at  ease  in  the  clear  moonlight. 

Their  queen  is  in  youth  and  In  beauty  there, 

In  beauty  there,  in  beauty  there, 

Their  queen  is  in  youth  and  in  beauty  there, 

The  daughters  of  earth  are  not  half  so  fair." 

Her  glance  is  so  quick  and  her  eyes  are  so  bright, 

Her  eyes  so  bright,  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  glance  is  so  quick  and  her  eyes  are  so  bright, 

But  they  glitter  with  wild  and  unearthly  light. 

She'll  meet  thee  at  dark  like  a  lady  fair, 

A  lady  fair,   a  lady  fair, 

She'll  meet  thee  at  dark  like  a  lady  fair, 

But  go  not,  for  danger  awaits  thee  there! 

She'll  take  thee  to  ramble  by  grove  and  by  glen, 

By  grove  and  by  glen,  by  grove  and  by  glen, 

She'll  take  thee  to  ramble  by  grove  and  by  glen, 

And  the  friends  of  thy  youth  will  ne'er  know  thee  again! 


THERE'S   A   COLLEEN   FAIR   AS   MAY. 

There's  a  colleen  fair  as  May  for  a  year  and  for  a  day 

I  have  sought  by  ev'ry  way  her  heart  to  gain. 
There's  no  art  of  tongue  or  eye  fond  youths  with  maidens  try 

But  I've  tried  with  ceaseless  sigh,  yet  tried  in  vain. 
If  to  France  or  far-off  Spain  she'd  cross  the  wat'ry  main, 

To  see  her  face  again  the  seas  I'd  brave; 
And  if  'tis  heav'n's  decree  that  mine  she  may  not  be, 

May  the   Son   of  Mary  me  in  mercy  save. 

0   thou  blooming  milk-white   dove  whom  I've   giv'n  true   love, 

Do  not  ever  reprove  my   constancy. 
There  are  maidens  would  be  mine,  with  wealth  in  land  and  kine, 

If  my  heart  would  but  incline  to  turn  from  thee. 
But  a  kiss  with  welcome  bland  and  touch  of  thy  fair  hand 

Are  all  that  I  demand — would'st  thob  not  spurn? 
For  if  not  mine,    dear   girl,   oh,   snowy-breasted  Pearl, 

May  I  never  from  the  Fair— with  life  return. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  183 

LAY  OF  THE  DYING  BAUD. 

The  day  went  down,  and  the  sun's  last  ray 

Had  passed  where  the  dying  harper  lay, 

His  snow-white  locks  in  the  breeze  did  play 

As  it  swept  thro'  the  aisles  of  Kincora. 

"Awake,    my   harp!"    he   faintly   cried, 

From  his  eyes  then  flashed  a  gleam  of  pride 

As  he  looked  back  on  days  of  the  regal  might 

When  the  chieftain  bold  and  the  warrior  knight 

And  beauty  in  jewels  and  rings  shone  bright, 

As  they  glanc'd  thro'  the  halls  of  Kincora. 

He  strikes  the  chords  from  the  silver  strings, 

A  low  and  tuneless  prelude  rings; 

Ah!   vain  the  time-worn  minstrel  sings 

A  lament  for  the  days  of  Kincora. 

His  broken  murmurs  melt  in  the  air, 

Tho'  his  voice  was  gone  yet  his  soul  was  there 

And  he  wept  for  the  towers  and  the  walls  laid  low, 

For  the  halls  where  no  more  the  goblets  flow, 

Where  joy  ran  high  and  soft  cheeks  did  glow 

To  his  strains  in  the  days  of  Kincora. 

"Where  are  ye  now,  ye  princes  all! 

Who  led  the  dance  in  the  festive  hall? 

lerne's  burning  tears  will  fall 

As  she   dreams  o'er   the  days  of  Kincora. 

On  Shannon's  banks  the  wild  winds  mourn 

For  glories,  alas!  that  no  more  return; 

Thro'   the   moldering   aisles   dark   shades   appear, 

The  spirits  of  former  guests  are  here; 

Grim  heroes  have  stol'n  from  their  tombless  bier 

To  sigh  o'er  the  days  of  Kincora." 

The  minstrel  rose  and  brush'd  away 

The  dews  of  woe  on  his   lids  that   lay, 

He  stood  on  the  height  o'er  the  waves  whose  spray 

Once  lash'd  the  proud  halls  of  Kincora. 

One   strain   of  joy   he   wildly   sung, 

In  the   ocean  stream  his  harp   he  flung. 

Then    sinking   down   by   the   rushing   tide, 

His  lips  grew  pale  and  his  eyes'   dark  pride 

Wax'd  glassy  and  dim  thro'  the  gloom,  and  died 

With  a  smile,  the  last  bard  of  Kincora. 

THO'   DARK   ARE    OUR   SORROWS. 

Tho'  dark  are  our  sorrows,   to-day  we'll  forget  them, 

And  smile  through  our  tears  like  a  sunbeam  in  show'rs; 
There  never  were  hearts,   if  our  rulers  would  let  them, 

More   form'd  to  be   grateful  and   blest  than   ours! 
But  just  when  the  chain  has  ceased  to  pain, 

And  hope  has  enwreath'd  it  round  with  flow'rs, 
There  comes  a  new  link  our  spirits  to  sink! — 
Oh!   the  joy  that  we  taste,   like  the  light  of  the  poles, 

Is  a  flash  amid  darkness  too  brilliant  to  stay; 
But  tho'  'twere  the  last  little  spark  in  our  souls 

We   must  light  it   up   now,    on   our  Prince's  Day. 

Contempt  on  the  minion  who  calls  you  disloyal! 

Though  fierce  to  your  foe,  to  your  friends  you  are  true; 
The  tribute   most  high   to  a   head  that  is  royal 

Is  love  from  a  heart  that  loves  liberty,   too. 
While  cowards  who  blight  your  fame,  your  right, 

Would  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  the  battle  array, 
The  standard  of  green  in   front  would  be  seen! — 
Oh!  my  life  on  your  faith,  were  you  summon'd  this  minute, 

You'd   cast   ev'ry   bitter   remembrance   away, 
And  show  what   the  arm  of  old  Erin  has  in  it 

When  roused  by  the  foe  on  her  Prince's  Day. 


184  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

He  loves  the  Green  Isle,  and  his  love  is  recorded 

In  hearts  which  have  suffer'd  too  much  to  forget; 
And  hope  shall  be  crpwn'd  and  attachment  rewarded, 

And   Erin's  gay  jubilee  shine  out  yet. 
The  gem  may  be  broke  by  many  a  stroke, 

But   nothing   can    cloud    its    native    array, 
Each  fragment  will  cast  a  light  to  the  last!— 
And  thus  Erin,   my  country,   tho'   broken  thou  art. 

There's  a  lustre  within  thee  that  ne'er  will  decay, 
A  spirit  which  beams  thro'  each  suffering  part, 

And  now  smiles  at  all  pain  on  the  Prince's  Day. 

THEEE   ARE   SOUNDS   OF   MIRTH. 

There  are  sounds  of  mirth  in   the  night  air  ringing, 

And   lamps   from   ev'ry  casement  shown, 
While  voices  blithe  within  are  singing, 

That  seem  to  say  "Come!"   in  ev'ry  strain. 
Ah!  once  how  light  in  life's  young  season 

My  heart  had  bounded  at  that  sweet  lay; 
Nor  paused  to  ask  of  grey-beard  Reason 

If  I  should  the  siren  call  obey. 

And  see  the  lamps  still  livelier  glitter; 

The  siren   lips  more   fondly  sound; 
No,   seek,   ye  nymphs,   some  victim  fitter 

To  sink  in  your   rosy  bondage  bound. 
Shall  a  bard  whom  not  the  world  in  arms 

Could  bend  to  tyrany's  rude  control, 
Thus  quail  at  sight  of  woman's  charms, 

And  yield  to  a  smile  his  free-born  soul? 

Thus  sung  the  sage  while  slyly  stealing 

The  nymphs  their   fetters  around  him  cast, 
And  their  laughing  eyes  the  while  concealing, 

Led  Freedom's  bard  their  slave  at  last. 
For  the  poet's  heart,   still  prone   to   loving, 

Was  like  that   rock  of  the   Druid's  race, 
Which   the   gentlest  touch  at  once   set  moving, 

But  all  earth's  pow'r  couldn't  cast  from  its  base. 

THIS    ROCK    THAT    OVERHANGS    THE    FOAM. 

This  rock   that  overhangs  the  foam 

Which   billowy  boils   below, 
My   childhood   blest  this  barren   home 

Ere  tears   had   learn'd   to  flow. 
Oh!  tearless  I  dwell  on  this  wild  steep, 

O'er  looking  that  vast  sea, 
And  think  the  tears  of  all  who  weep 

Can  bring  no  tears  for  me. 

Then  blest  is  the  sleep,  the  happy  sleep 

For  those  whose  pangs  are  o'er, 
Whose   streaming   eyes  no   more  may  weep, 

Where  tyrants   scourge  no  more. 
My    fathers    sleep,    their    sorrows    past, 

While  I   alone  remain, 
Like  the  last  cold  link  that  breaks  at  last 

Of   Sorrow's  iron  chain. 

The  wild  wolf  hath  a.  mountain  home, 

For  me   alas!    remains 
No  smile  beyond  the  dreary  foam, 

And  here  but  tears  and  chains. 
Like   the   rosy   wreath   which   sunset   links, 

At  ev'ning  o'er  the  sea,  ' 
Thus  when  my  parting  spirit  sinks, 

Then  hope  may  smile  for  me. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  185 

COBMAC  OGE. 

The  pigeons  coo,  the  spring's  approaching  now, 
The   bloom  is  bursting  on  the  leafy   bough; 
The  cresses  green  o'er  streams  are  clust'ring  low, 
And  honey  hives  with  sweets  abundant  flow. 

Rich  are  the  fruits  the  haz'ly  woods  display, 

A   slender   virgin,   virtuous,    fair  and  gay, 

With  steeds  and  sheep,  of  kine  a  many  score, 

By  trout-stored  Lee  whose  banks  we'll  see  no  more. 

The  little  birds  pour  music's  sweetest  notes, 
The   calves  for  milk  distend  their  bleating   throats; 
Above  the  weirs  the  silver  salmon  leap, 
While  Cormac  Oge  and  I  all  lonely  weep. 

THE  SILENT  BIRD  IS  HID. 

The  silent  bird  is  hid  in  the  boughs,  a  scythe  is  hid  in  the  corn, 
The  lazy  oxen  wink  and  drowse,  the  grateful  sheep  are  shorn; 
Redder  and  redder  burns  the  rose,  the  lily  was  ne'er  so  pale, 
Stiller  and  stiller  the  river  flows  along  the  path  to  the  vale. 

A  little  door  is  hid  in  the  boughs,  a  face  is  hiding  within; 
When  birds  are  silent  and  oxen  drowse  .why  should  a  maiden  spin? 
Slower  and  slower  turns  the  wheel,  the  face  turns  red  and  pale, 
Brighter  and  brighter  the  looks  that  steal  along  the  path  to  the  vale. 

THE   WINTER   IT   IS   PAST. 

The  winter  it  is  past  and  the  summer  come  at  last 

And  the  blackbird  sings  on   ev'ry  tree; 
The  hearts  of  these  are  glad  but  mine  is  very  sad 

Since  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

The  rose  upon  the  briar  by  the  waters  running  clear 

Gives  joy  to  the  linnet  and  the  bee; 
Their  little  hearts  are  blest  but  mine  is  not  at  rest 

While  my  true  love  is  absent  from  me. 

My  love  is  like  the  sun  that  in  the  firmament  does  run, 

And  always   proves   constant   and   true; 
But  his  is  like  the  moon  that  wanders  up  and  down, 

And  ev'ry  month  it  is  new. 

'TWAS    EARLY    ONE   MORNING. 

'Twas  early  one  morning  young  Willy  arose, 
And   up   to  his  comrade's  bedchamber   he  goes. 
"Arise,  my   dear  comrade,   and   let  no  one  know, 
'Tis  a  fine  sunny  morning  and   a-bathing  we'll   go." 

Young  Willy  plunged  in,  and  he  swam  the  lake  round; 
He  swam  to  an   island— 'twas  soft,   marshy  ground; 
"Oh!   comrade,    dear  comrade,   do  not  venture  in, 
There  is  deep  and  false  water  in  the  Lake  of  Coolfln!" 

'Twas  early  that  morning  his  sister  arose; 
And  up  to  her  mother's  bedchamber  she  goes — 
"Oh!   I  dreamed  a  sad  dream  about  Willy  last  night; 
He  was  dress'd  in  a  shroud— in  a  shroud  of  snow  white!" 

'Twas  early  that  morning  his  mother  came  there; 
She  was  wringing  her  hands — she  was  tearing  her  hair; 
O,   woeful   the  hour  your  dear  Willy  plung'd   in, 
There  is  deep  and  false  wafer  in  the  Lake  of  Coolfln! 

And  I   saw  a  fair  maiden   standing  fast  by  the  shore; 
Her  face  it  was  pale — she  was  weeping  full  sore; 
In  deep  anguish  she  gaz'd  where  young  Willy  plung'd  in — 
Ah!  there's  deep  and  false  water  in  the  Lake  of  Coolflu! 


186  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  WREN-BOYS'  SONG. 

The  wren,  the  wren,  the  king  of  all  birds, 
Saint  Stephen's   Day   was   caught   in  a  furze; 
Although  he  is  little  his  family's  great; 
I  pray  you,  good  lady,  give  us  a  treat. 

CHORUS.— Sing  hey!  sing  ho!    Sing  holy,  sing  holy! 

A    drop   just   to    drink,    it   would   cure   melancholy. 

Sing  hey!  sing  ho!     Sing  holy,  sing  holy! 

A  drop  just  to  drink,  it  would  cure  melancholy. 

My  box  would  speak  if  it  had  but  a  tongue, 
And  two  or  three  shillings  would  do  it  no  wrong; 
So  show  us  some  pity  in  order  that  we 
May  drink  you  good  health  for  your  kind  charity. 
Sing  hey!  sing  ho!  etc. 

And  if  you  draw  it  of  the  best, 

I  hope  In  heaven  your  soul  it  may  rest; 

But   if  you   draw   it  of   the   small, 

It  won't  agree  with  the  wren-boys  at  all! 

Sing  hey!  sing  ho!  etc. 


WELCOME  AS  FLOWERS  IN  MAY. 

"So,    Katty   dear,    you've   told   your   mother 

That  I'm  a  rogue,   by  that  and  this, 
We'll  prove  that  same  somehow  or  other, 

So  first  of  all  I'll  steal  a  kiss."  « 

"Och!     Terry   dear,   don't   call   it  stealing, 

A  kiss  you  cannot  take  away, 
The  loss  of  that  I'd  not  be  feeling— 

You're  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May." 

"But,   Katty  dear,   I'm  growing  bolder, 

A   great   big  thief   I   mean   to  start, 
And  before  I  am  an  hour  older 

I'd  like  to  steal  away  your  heart." 
"Och  Terry,  don't  you  call  it  robbin', 

My  heart  you've  owned  this  many  a  day; 
But  if  you  like  to  ease  its  throbbin', 

You're  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May." 

"But,  Katty  dear,   I  am  not  joking, 

My  wounded  honor  you  must  heal; 
I'll  not  be  called  such  names  for  nothing, 

Sure,  it's  yourself  away  I'd  steal." 
"Och!    Terry,  that  would  be  housebreaking, 

But  if  my  mother  don't  say  nay, 
It's  to  Father  Tom  you  may  be  spaking— 

You're  welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May." 


AVONDHTI. 

Oh,   Avondhu,   I  wish   I   were 

As  once  upon  that  mountain  bare, 

Where  thy   young   waters   laugh  and  shine 

On  the  wild  breast  of  Meenganine. 

I  wish  I  were  by  Cicada's  hill, 

Or  by  Glenruachra's  rushy  rill; 

But  no!    I  never  more  shall  view 

Those  scenes  I  loved  by  Avondhu. 

Farewell,  ye  soft  and  purple  streaks 
Of  evening  on  the  beauteous  Reeks; 
Farewell,  ye  mists,  that  loved  to  rid» 
OB  Cahirbearna's  stormy  side. 


HIBERNIAN  SONGSTER.  187 

Farewell,   November's  moaning  breeze. 
Wild  minstrel  of   the  dying  trees; 
Clara!     a   fond    farewell   to   you, 
No  more  we  meet  by  Avondhu. 

No  more — but  thou,   O  glorious  hill, 
Lift  to  the  moon  thy  forehead  still; 
Flow  on,  flow  on,  thou  dark  swift  river, 
Upon  thy  free  wild  course  forever. 
Exult,  young  hearts,  in  lifetime's  spring, 
And  taste  the  joys  pure  love  can  bring; 
But  wanderer,  go,   they're  not  for  you — 
Farewell,  farewell,  sweet  Avondhu. 


THE  BED-HAIRED  MAN'S  WIFE. 

Though  full  as   'twill  hold  of  gold  the  harvest  has  smil'd, 

I'll   ne'er  have  relief  from  grief  for  that  fond  grey-eyed  child, 

Whom  kindred   most  cruel,  poor  jewel,  into  loveless  wedded  life, 

With  an  anguish  be  it  told  have  sold  to  be  the  Red-Hair'd  Man's  wife. 

That  fond   valentine   of  mine  a   letter  I   sent, 

That  I'd  soon  sail  with  store  galore  to  wed  her  ere  Lent. 

Her  friends  stole  the  note  I  wrote,  and  far  worse  than  with  knife 

Have  slain  my  bright  pearl  for  a  churl— she's  the  Red-Haired  Man's  wife. 

Oh,   child  and  sweetheart,   their  art  had  you  but  withstood 

Till  I  had  come  home  o'er  foam  for  our  groat  joy  and  good; 

I   had  not  now  to   go  under   woe  o'er  the   salt  sea's  strife, 

A  wand'rer  to  France  from  the  glance  of  the  Red-Hair'd  Man's  wife. 

THY    WELCOME,    O'LEAKY. 

Thy  welcome,    O'Leary,   be  joyous  and  high 

As  the   dwelling  of  fairy  can  echo  reply; 

The  Baraboo's  wildness  is  meet  for  the  fray, 

The   crotal's   soft   mildness   for  festival   gay. 

The   claraeach   and   crotal  and   loud  Barraboo 

Shall   sound   not   a  note   till    we've   music   from  you, 

The   clarseach   and   crotal   and    loud   Barraboo 

Shall  sound  not  a  note  till  we've  music  from  you. 

O'er  harper  and  poet  we'll  place  high  thy  seat, 

O'Leary,   we   owe   it  to  piper   so  sweet; 

The    clarseach    is    meeter   for    bower   and   hall, 

But   thy   chanter   sounds  sweeter,    far  sweeter  than  all; 

And  fairies  are  braiding,  such   fav'rite  art  thou, 

Fresh   laurels    unfading  to   circle  thy   brow, 

And  fairies  are   braiding,   such   fav'rite   art  thou, 

Fresh   laurels  unfading  to   circle  thy   brow. 


WEEP    NO    MOEE. 

Weep  no  more,  heart  of  my  heart,  no  more! 

The  night  has  passed  and  the  dawn  is  here, 
The   cuckoo   calls    from    the   budding   trees, 

And   tells  us   that   Spring  is   near. 
Sorrow  no  more,   belov'd,   no  more; 

For  see,   sweet  emblem  of  hope  untold! 
The  tears  that  soft  on  the  shamrocks  fall 

There   turn  to   blossoms  of  gold. 
Winter  has  gone  with   his  blighting  breath, 

No  more  to  chill  thee  with  cold  or  fear, 
The  brook   laughs  loud   in   its  liberty. 

Green   buds  on   the   hedge   appear. 
Weep    no    more,    life    of    my    heart,    no    more! 

The  birds   are   carolling   sweet  and   clear; 
The  warmth  of  Summer  is   in   tha  breeze, 

And  the    Spring— the   Spring   is   here. 


188  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

'TWAS    ONE    OF    THOSE    DREAMS. 

'Twas  one  of  those  dreams  that  by  music  are  brought 
Like  a  bright  summer  haze  o'er  the  poet's  warm  thought; 
When   lost  in   the  future  his  soul   wanders  on, 
And  all  of  this  life  but  its  sweetness  is  gone. 

The  wild   notes  he  heard   o'er  the  waters   were  those 
To  which  he  had  sung  Erin's  bondage  and  woes, 
And   the  breath  of  the   bugle  now  wafted  them   o'er, 
From  Dina's  green  isle  to  Glena's  wooded  shore. 

He  Hsten'd  while  high  o'er  the  eagle's  rude  nest, 
The   lingering  sounds   on   their   way   lov'd   to   rest; 
And  the  echoes  sung  back  from  their  full  mountain  quire, 
As  if  loth  to  let  song  so  enchanting  expire. 

Ev'n  so,  tho"  thy  mem'ry  should  now  die  away, 
'Twill  be  caught  up   again   in  some  happier  day, 
And  the  hearts  and  the  voices  of  Erin  prolong 
Thro'  the  answering  future  thy  name  and  thy  song. 

WHEN    COLD   IN    THE    EARTH. 

When  cold  In  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  hast  lov'd, 

Be  his  faults  and  his  follies  forgot  by  thee  then; 
Or,  If  from  their  slumber  the  veil  be  remov'd, 

Weep  o'er  them  in  silence  and  close  it  again. 
And  oh!  if  'tis  pain  to  remember  how  far 

From  the  pathways  of  light  he  was  tempted  to  roam, 
Be  it  bliss  to  remember  that  thou  wert  the  star 

That  arose  on  his  darkness  and  guided  him  home. 

From  thee  and  thy  Innocent  beauty  first  came 

The  revealings  that  taught  him  true  love  to  adore, 
To  feel  the  bright  presence  and  turn  him  with  shame 

From  the  idols  he  blindly  had  knelt  to  before. 
O'er  the  waves  of  a  life,   long  benighted   and  wild, 

Thou  cam'st  like  a  soft  golden  calm  o'er  the  sea; 
And  If   happiness  purely  and   glowingly   smiled 

On  his  evening  horizon,  the  light  was  from  thee. 


WHY,  LIQUOR  OF  LIFE. 

Why,  liquor  of  life,  do  I  love  you  so, 

When  In  all  our  encounters  you  lay  me  low? 

More  stupid  and  senseless  I  ev'ry  day  grow, 

What  a  hint  if  I'd  mended  by  the  warning! 
'Tis  tattered  and  torn,  you've  left  my  coat, 
I've  not  a  cravat  to  save  my  throat, 
Yet  I'll  pardon  you  all,  my  sparkling  doat, 

If  you'll  cheer  me  again  in  the  morning. 

You're  my  soul,  my  treasure  without  and  within. 
My  sister,  my  cousin,  and  all  my  kin; 
'Tis  unlucky  to  wed  such  a  prodigal  sin, 

But  all  other  enjoyments  are  vain,  love. 
My  barley  ricks  all  turn  to  you, 
My  tillage,  my  plough,  my  horses  too, 
My  cows  and  my  sheep,  I  have  bade  them  adieu: 

For  I  care  not  while  you  remain,  love. 

And  many's  the  quarrel  and  fight  we've  had. 
And  many's  the  time  you  have  made  me  mad, 
But  while  I've  a  heart  it  can  never  be  sad 

While  you  smile  at  me  full  o'n  the  table. 
For  surely  you  are  my  wife  and  brother, 
My  only  child — my  father  and  mother— 
My   outside   coat — I   have   no   other, 

Och,  I'll  stand  by  you  while  I'm  able. 


THERE  >S  A  LAND. 


There's  a       land    that     we      love    with      the      deep  -  est     de    -   vo    -  tion.      No 
&•  S.—  glo    -    ri  -  ous        E    -    rin,  bright    gem       of     the         o   -  cean!      A 


H 

£y—  -  i~  j*      J  ;        -J        J>        ft     1      ft          Pi       ft    -  •[                 _p  R  -I 

dis  -  tance  can     less   -  en,       no        time       can      ef  -   face,                 As         it 
bright    day     will  dawn      on      your      green      hills      a    -  gain,                  When 

S^J  n  —  f  II  ^  f  f  «,  1  f  =1  f  ! 

L__;  _L_  

^-—ssf-=======i 

springs  from  our  hearts  with  the       fond  -  est       e   -    mo-tion,  Dear        Is  -  land    of 
free  -  dom  shall  smile  as      your       chil-dren's  just    por-tion,   And       Ire  -  land  stands 


FINE. 


-f— r— M 

V          V          V—- 1 


t  —  s  —  ^_  —  R  —  ^  —  .,  —  J  —  Hf 

sor  -  row,    be  -   loved    of     our    race.        j  Hail,       glo    -    ri  -  ous       E  •  rin,  sweet 
forth    as        a  na  -  tion     re-claimed.     |  When     free  -  dom  shall  smile  as    your 


gem     of      the       o  -  cean!    A       bright    day  will  dawn  on     your    green  hills     a    - 
chil-dren's  just    por  -  tion,  [Omit 


gain, 

.    ]       And       Ire  -  land  stands  forth  as       a  na  -  tion     re-   claimed.    Hail, 


RICH  A2SD  RARE  WERE  THE  GEMS  SHE  WORE.* 

Aa.— "THE  SUMMER  IS  COMLKG." 


THOMAS  Moons 


Arranged  by  1. 1.  HATTOH. 


wnre,  And  a    bright  gold  ring     on   ber        wand      she  bore: 

stray.  So             lon«  and  love  •  ly  through  this       bleak  way? 

lana ;  No            son  of  E  -   rln  will       of  -  fer   me  harm ; 

smile  ID              safe  •   ty  light  -  ed    her    round  the  Green  Isle; 


IJ  .  J»  \i>'\  •=P= 

i  j  "  i  i  r 

T=F=^ 

i)                                                                                                                 V     V                                    •>  ~ 

oh!           her  beau  -ty   was     far          be  -  yond     Ber     spark  -  Hog     gems        or 
E            rln'x    sons          so    good    or  so     cold.       As     not    to    be     tempt-ed    by 
tho'  they  love    wo-man    and     gold    -  en     store.     Sir  KelgliVthey  love  hon  -  or  and 
blest          for  -  ev  .  er    was    she  who  re  -  lied     Up-on   E     -     rln's  hon  -  or  and 

r"1  r  •" 

snow  -  •white 
wo  -  man   or 
vlrt      -    ue 
E    -     rln's 

fnli-i 
m/i^  ^ 

-+*  -*^rW—  *  d 

=*3  O  * 

i4-«  .  ^  j  «  j= 

j^ 

j  ,  u 

*-*~r*i 

I  ^'I-J^^1 
T    x     iT^.,,    g"n 

5SSE3E3 

•u  in  —  r- 

—i  — 

L_J  _  —  (-_  —  1 

_  ,  , 

wand.  But  oh  I             her     beau  -  ty     wan  far  be  •  yond  Her    spark    -  ling 

gold?  Are  "E              rln's      sons              so  good    or  so      cold.  As     not   to     be 

morel  For.  tbo'  they  love      wo  -  man    and  gold     - 1.  en     store.  Sir  Knipht, they  love 

pride.  And  blest            for   -  ev    -   er     wa»  she    wlw  re   -  lieu  Upon    E      -     rln's 


~~ • — r=r~f — * — riz*~ 

genii        or      snow     -   white      wand. 
tempt-ed     by    wo    •  man     or          gold?" 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  191 

WHENE'ER    I    SEE    THOSE    SMILING    EYES. 

Whene'er   I   see   those    smiling  eyes, 

All  filled  with  hope  and  joy  and  light, 
As  if  no  cloud  could  ever  rise 

To  dim  a  heav'n   so  purely  bright, 
I  sigh  to  think  how  soon   that  brow 

In  grief  may  lose  its  ev'ry  ray, 
And  that  light  heart,    so  joyous  now, 

Almost  forget  it  once   was  gay. 

For  time  will  come  with  all  its  blights, 

The  ruin'd  hope,  the  friend  unkind, 
The  love,   that  leaves  where'er  it  lights 

A  chill'd  or   burning  heart  behind; 
While  youth,  that  now   like  snow  appears, 

Ere  sullied  by  the  dark'ning  rain, 
When  once  'tis  touch'd  by  sorrow's  tears, 

Will  never  shine  so  bright  again. 

WHEN   SUMMER    COMES. 

When   summer   comes,   then   you    are   near  to   me, 
I  feel  your  phantom  presence  on   my  heart, 

In  ev'ry  wind  that  dead  year  speaks  again, 
And  ev'ry  scene  springs  up  to  take  its  part. 

'Twas  such  a  day,  as  sweet'  a  wind  arose 
To  kiss  with  perfum'd  lips  your  blown  hair; 

With  brow  perplex'd  and   that  odd  smile  you  had, 
I  wondered  what  you  thought  of,  standing  there. 

'Twas  here  I  stooped  to  pluck  a  drooping  flow'r 
You  prayed  so  foolishly  that  you  might  keep; 

And  here  you  turn'd  a  moment's  space  so  cold, 
I  only  laugh'd  for  fear  that  I  should  weep. 

O  phantom  love!  that  haunts  me  restlessly, 
That  from  my  passionate  hands  will  ever  fly, 

Fate  owes  me  this,  I  will  pursue  and  hold, 
Or,  finding  you  but  a  shadow,  let  me  die. 

SWEET  KITTY  MAGEE. 

With   cheeks    as   bright   as   roses 

And  airy  steps  so  light  and  free, 
'Twas  coming  from  the  market 

That  first  I  met  sweet  Kitty  Magee. 
Such  curly  hair  of  nut-brown  hue, 

Roguish  eyes  of  sparkling  blue, 
Glancing  withal   so  laughingly, 

Blythesome,  charming  Kilty  Magee. 

Since  then  I've  often  told  her 

That  she's  my  love,  and  only  she, 
But  all  I  get  is  laughter, 

And  saucy  looks  from  Kitty  Magee. 
And  when  the  little  hand  I  press, 

It's  "Now  be  good!"  and  "Let  me  be!" 
Then  with  a  bound  she  springs  away, 

'Witching,  smiling  Kitty  Magee. 

I've  land  and  sheep  and  cattle, — 

I've  wealth, — but  all  is  nought  to  me 
Until  I  win  my  sweetheart, — 

My   laughing,   blue-ey'd   Kitty  Magee. 
'Twas  yestereve  she  shyly  said 

She's  still  too  young  to  wedded  be; 
"Wait  till  the  spring  returns  again," 

Blushingly  whisper'd  Kitty  Magee. 


192  HYLAND  S    MAMMOTH 

WREATHE    THE    BOWL. 

Wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flow'rs  of  soul 
The  brightest 

Wit  can  find  us; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heav'n  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreatns  be  bid 

That  Joy,  th'  enchanter,  brings  us, 
No   danger   fear, 
While  wine  is  near, 

We'll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 
CHORUS.— Then  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flow'rs  of  soul 
The  brightest 

Wit  can  find  us; 
We'll  take  a  flight 
Tow'rds  heav'n  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us! 
'Twas  nectar  fed 
Of  old,  'tis  said, 

Their  Junes,  Joves,  Apollos; 
And  Man  may  brew 
His  nectar  too,       • 

The  rich  receipt's  as  follows: 
Take  wine  like  this, 
Let  looks  of  bliss 

Around  it  well  be  blended, 
Then  bring  Wit's  beam 
To  warm  the  stream, 

And  there's  your  nectar,  splendid. 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl,  etc. 
Say,  why  did  Time 
His  glass  sublime 

Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 
When  wine,  he  knew, 
Runs  brisker  through, 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly? 
Oh,  lend  it  us, 
And,  smiling  thus, 

The  glass  in  two  we'll  sever, 
Make  pleasure  glide 
In  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  for  ever! 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl,  etc. 

WHEN    WAR    WAS    HEARD. 

When  war  was  heard,  and  Erin's  call 

Around  me  from  thy  side, 
No  danger  could  my  heart  appal. 

For  thee  I  would  have  died. 
But  when  our  moments  sweetly  flew, 

Beneath  the  spreading  tree. 
The  secret  charm  of  life  I  knew, 

To  live  for  love  and  thee. 

When  gloomy  care  disturb'd  thy  rest, 

Or  sorrow  dimm'd  thine  eye, 
Oh,  did  not  then  this  tender  breast 

Return  the  sigh   for  sigh? 
But  did  delight  thy  bosom  know 

And  love  thine  hours  employ. 
We  shar'd  the  sympathetic  glow. 

And  mingled  tears  of  joy. 


HIBERNIAN  SONGSTER.  193 

MY  NOBLE  IRISH  GIRL. 

I  love  thee — oh,   that  word  is  tarn* 

To  tell  how  dear  thou  art; 
No  seraph  feels  a  holier  flame 

Than  that  which  fills  my  heart. 
How  mild  and  innocent  the  brow, 

Where  thy  dark  ringlets  curl; 
Thy  soul  is  pure  as  virgin  dawn, 

My  noble  Irish  girl. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon  thy  smile, 

Thine  eyes  so  bright  and  gay; 
For  there's  no  stain  of  art  or  guile 

In  aught  you  think  or  say. 
The  happiest  hour  that  e'er  I  knew, 

Though  it  my  peace  may  peril, 
Is  when  thee  to  my  heart  I  drew, 

My  noble  Irish  girl. 

I  need  not  in  the  herald's  book 

My  loved  one's  lineage  trace — 
I  read  her  lineage  in  her  look, 

Her  record  in  her  face; 
I  hear  it  in  each  touching  tone 

That  floats  thro'  rows  of  pearl; 
Thou  art  my  queen—  my  heart's  thy  throne, 

My  noble  Irish  girl. 

I  feel  the  impress  of  thy  worth, 

And  strive  to  be  like  thee; 
Thou  art  to  me  what  Heaven's  to  earth, 

What  sunshine's  to  the  sea; 
And  if  from  me  some  luster  beam, 

Mid  sin  and  passion's  whirl, 
'Tis  thy  light  shines  on  my  life's  stream, 

My  noble  Irish  girl. 


TERRY    O'ROURKE. 

From  the  province  of  Munster  I  first  took  my  name, 

I  have  been  in  Connaught,  I  think  it  no  shame, 

The  night  I  was  born  there  was  thundering  joy, 

To  think  that  my  daddy  should  have  such  a  boy, 

Och  Mavroone!  how  the  midwife  did  talk, 

"By  the  hokey,"  says  Paddy,  ."he'll  soon  fetch  a  walk, 

With  his  pouting  sweet  lips  and  his  mammy's  big  look, 

By  my  conscience  we'll  christen  him  Terry  O'Rourke, 

Terry  O'Rourke,  Terry  O'Rourke. 

Terry  O",  Terry  O',  Terry  O'tlourke, 

Terry  O',  Terry  O',  Terry  O',  Terry, 

By  my  conscience  we'll  christen  him  Terry  O'Rourke." 

The  clergy  got  notice  the  night  'twas  to  be. 

The  gossips  were  sent  for  to  wait  upon  me; 

The  neighbors  assembled,  the  priest  took  his  book, 

And  sprinkled  the  water  on  Terry  O'Rourke. 

Och  Mavroone!  there  was  whiskey,  don't  fear, 

To  soften  the  heart  of  the  ladies,  my  dear, 

There  was  piping  and  fiddling,  and  that  sort  of  work, 

To  keep  up  the  christening  of  Terry  O'Rourke. 

To  make  me  a  scholar,  my  parents  agreed, 

To  put  me  to  speaking  before  I  could  read, 

I  picked  up  my  learning  so  mightly   fast, 

Faith,  Terry,  he  beat  his  poor  master  at  last. 

Och  Mavroone!  how  I  bother'd  their  hearts, 

My  learning  produced  such  natural  parts, 

That  my  own  pretty  face  in  their  samplers  they'd  work, 

And  were  constantly  sighing  for  Terry  O'Rourke. 


194  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

FLY  NOT  YET. 

Fly  not  yet,  'tis  just  the  hour 

When  pleasure,  like  the  midnight  flow'r, 

That  scorns  the  eye  of  vulgar  light, 

Begins  to  bloom  for  sons  of  night, 

And  maids  who  love  the  moon! 

'Twas  but  to  bless  these  hours  of  shad» 

That  beauty  and  the  moon  were  made, 

'Tis  then  soft  attractions  glowing, 

Set  the  tides  and  goblets  flowing, 

Oh!  stay, —  oh!  stay, — 

Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a  chain 

Like  this  to-night,  that  oh!  'tis  pain 

To  break  its  links  so  soon. 

Oh!  stay,  oh!  stay, — 

Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a  chain 

Like  this  to-night,  that  oh!  'tis  pain 

To  break  its  links  so  soon. 

Ply  not  yet;  the  fount  that  play'd 

In  times  of  old,  through  Ammon's  shade, 

Though  icy  cold  by  day  it  ran, 

Yet  still,  like  souls  of  mirth,  began 

To  burn  when  night  was  near; 

And  thus  should  women's  hearts  and  looks 

At  noon  be  cold  as  winter  brooks, 

Nor  kindle  till  the  night,  returning, 

Brings  their  genial  hour  for  burning, 

Oh!  stay — oh!  stay, 
When  did  morning  ever  break, 
And  find  such  beaming  eyes  awake, 
As  those  that  sparkle  here! 

Oh!  stay,  etc. 

SWEET   SYBYL. 

My  Love  is  as  fresh  as  the  morning  sky, 

My  Love  is  as  soft  as  the  summer  air, 
My  Love  is  as  true  as  the  Saints  on  high, 
And  never  was  saint  so  fair! 
O,  glad  is  my  heart  when  I  name  her  name, 

For  it  sounds  like  a  song  to  me — 
I'll  love  you,  it  sings,  nor  heed  their  blame, 

For  you  love  me  Astor  Machree! 
Sweet  Sibyl!  sweet  Sibyl!  my  heart  is  wild 

With  the  fairy  spell  that  her  eyes  have  lit; 
I  sit  in  a  dream  where  my  Love  has  smil'd — 
I  kiss  where  her   name  is   writ! 
O,  darling,  I  fly  like  a  dreamy  boy; 

The  toil  that  is  joy  to  the  strong  and  true. 
The  life  that  the  brave  for  their  land  employ, 

I  squander  in  dreams  of  you. 
The  face  of  my  Love  has  the  changeful  light 
That  gladdens  the  sparkling  sky  of  spring; 
The  voice  of  my  Love  is  a  strange  delight, 
As  when  birds  in  the  May-time  sing. 
O,   hope  of  my  heart!    O,  light  of  my  life! 

O,  come  to  me,  darling,  with  peace  and  rest! 
O,  come  like  the  Summer,  my  own  sweet  wife, 

To  your  home  in  my  longing  breast! 
Be  blessed  with  the  home  sweet  Sibyl  will  sway 
With  the  glance  of  her  soft  and  queenly  eyes; 
O!  happy  the  love  young  Sibyl  will  pay 
With  the  breath  of  her  tender  sighs. 
That  home  is  the  hope  of  my  waking  dreams — 

That  love  fills  my  eyes  with  pride — 
There's  light  in  their  glance,  there's  joy  in  their  beams, 
When  I  think  of  my  own   young  bride. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  195 

CAPTAIN   MEGAN. 

O!  the  face  of  brave  Captain  Megan 
Was  as  broad  as  a  big  frying-pan; 

Just  over  his  snout, 

One  eye  was  snuff' d  out. 

But  tne  other  burn'd  bright  upon  Nan — sw»at  Nan! 
O,  it  bother'd  the  heart  of  poor  Nan. 
"I'm  no  beauty,"  sighed  Captain  Megan, 
But  'tis  manners  alone  make  the  man; 

And  though   my  long  nose 

Should  hang  o'er  my  toes, 

Would  you  like  me  the  worse' for  it,  Nan — sweet  Nan? 
Would  you  like  me  the  worse  for  it,  Nan? 
Nan  leer'd  upon  Captain  Megan; 
Her  skin  was  the  color  of  tan; 

But  the  Captain,  she  saw, 

Had  a  jenescaiquoi; 

So  the  Captain  he  conquer'd  sweet  Nan — sweet  Nan! 
O!  long  life  to  brave  Captain  Megan. 

AILEEN   AROON. 

How  sweet  and  pleasing  the  birds  sing  in  June, 
How  sweet  and  pleasing  the  birds  sing  in  June, 

Gay  prospects  abounding, 

All  nature  surrounding, 
And  all  to  delight  my  sweet  Aileen  Aroon. 
The  roses  and  lilies  in  May  and  June, 
The  roses  and  lilies  in  May  and  June, 

So  charming  and  blooming, 

Around  all  perfuming, 

And  not  half  so  sweet  as  my  Aileen  Aroon. 
When  sultry  bright  Phoebus  makes  fervid  the  noon-, 
When  sultry  bright  Phoebus  makes  fervid  the  noon, 

In  the  grove  or  the  bower, 

I'll  pass  the  long  hour, 
And  sing  in  the  praise  of  sweet  Aileen  Aroon. 

GREEN  BUSHES. 

As  I  was  a  walking  one  morning  in  May, 

To  hear  the  birds  whistle,  and  see  lambkins  play, 

I  espied  a  young  damsel,  so  sweetly  sang  she, 

Down  by  the  green  bushes,  where  she  chanc'd  to  meet  me. 

"Oh!  why  are  you  loitering  here,  pretty  maid?" 

"I'm  waiting  for  my  true  love,"  softly  she  said; 

"Shall  I  be  your  true  love,  and  will  you  agree 

To  leave  your  own  true  love,  and  follow  with  me? 

"I'll  give  you  fine  havers,  and  fine  silken  gowns; 

I'll  give  you  smart  petticoats  flounced  to  the  ground, 

I'll  buy  you  fine  jewels,  and  live  but  for  thee, 

If  you'll  leave  your  true  love,  and  follow  with  me." 

"I  want  none  of  your  havers,  nor  fine  silks  nor  hose, 

For  I'm  not  so  poor  as  to  marry  for  clothes; 

But  if  you'll  be  constant  and  true  unto  me 

I'll  leave  my  own  true  love,  and  marry  with  thee. 

"Come,  let  us  be  going,  kind  sir,  if  you  please: 

Oh!  let  us  be  going  from  under  these  trees; 

For  yonder  is  coming  my  true  love,  you  see, 

Down  by  the  green  bushes,  where  he  thinks  to  meet  me." 

And  when  he  came  there,  and  found  she  was  gone, 

He  looked  very  sheepish,  and  cried,  quite  forlorn, 

"She's  gone  with  another,  and  forsaken  me, 

And  left  the  green  bushes,  where  she  vow'd  to  meet  me." 


196  HIBERNIAN   SONGSTKR. 

IRISH  CASTLES. 

"Sweet  Norah,  eome  here,  and  look  into  the  flre; 

Maybe  in  its  embers  good  luck  we  might  see; 
But  don't  come  too  near,  or  your  glances  so  shining, 

Will  put  it  clean  out,  like  the  sunbeams,  machree! 

"Just  look   'twixt  the   sods,   where  so   brightly   they're   burning; 

There's  a  sweet  little  valley,  with  rivers  and  trees, — 
And  a  house  on  the  bank,  quite  as  big  as  the  squire's — 

Who  knows  but  some  day  we'll  have  something  like  these? 

"And  now  there's  a  coach,  and  four  galloping  horses, 

A  coachman  to  drive,  and  a  footman  behind; 
That  betokens  some  day  we  will  keep  a  fine  carriage, 

And  dash  through  the  streets  with  the  speed  of  the  wind." 

As  Dermot  was  speaking,  the  rain  down  the  chimney 
Soon  quenched  the  turf-fire  on  the  hollowed  hearth-stone 

While  mansion  and  carriage  in  smoke-wreaths  evanished, 
And  left  the  poor  dreamers  dejected  and  lone. 

Then  Norah  to  Dermot  these  words  softly  whisper'd, — 

"  'Tis  better  to  strive,  than  to  vainly  desire; 
And  our  little  hut  by  the  roadside  is  better 

Than  palace,  and  servants,  and  coach — in  the  flre!" 

'Tis  years  since  poor  Dermot  his  fortune  was  dreaming — 

Since  Norah's  sweet  counsel  effected  its  cure; 
For  ever  since  then  hath  he  toiled  night  and  morning, 

And  now  his  snug  mansion  looks  down  on  the  Suir. 


I   WAS   THE    BOY    FOR    BEWITCHING   'EM. 

I  was  the  boy  for  bewitching  'em, 

Whether  good-humor'd  or  coy; 
All  cried,  when  I  was  beseeching  'em, 

"Do  what  you  will  with  me,  joy." 
"Daughters,  be  cautious  and  steady," 

Mothers  would  cry  out  for  fear. 
"Won't  you  take  care  now  of  Teddy? 

Oh!  he's  the  devil,  my  dear!" 
CHORUS.— For  I  was  the  boy  for  bewitching  'em, 

Whether  good-humor'd  or  coy; 
All  cried,  when  I  was  beseeching  'em, 
"Do  what  you  will  with  me,  joy." 

Prom  ev'ry  quarter  I  gather'd  'em 

Very  few  rivals  had  I; 
If  I  found  any,  I  feather'd  'em, 

That  made  "em  plaguily  shy. 
Pat  Mooney  my  Shellah  once  meeting, 

I  twig'd  him  beginning  his  clack; 
Says  he  "At  my  heart  I've  a  beating," 

Says  I,   "Then  take  one  at  your  back." 

For  I  was  the  boy,  etc. 
Many  a  lass  that  would  fly  away 

When  other  wooers  but  spoke, 
Once  if  I  took  her,  I  die  away, 

There  was  an  end  of  the  joke. 
Beauties,  no  matter  how  cruel, 

Hundreds  of  lads  though  they  cross'd 
When  I  came  nigh  to  them,  jewel, 

Melted  like  mud  in  a  frost. 

For  I  was  the  boy,  etc. 


HIBERNIAN     SONGSTER.  197 

MARY   OF    TIPPERARY. 

From  sweet  Tipperary, 

See  light-hearted  Mary, 

Her  step  like  a  fairy, 
Scarce  ruffles  the  dew, 

As  she  joyously  springs, 

And  as  joyously  sings, 

Disdaining  such  things 
As  a  stocking  or  shoe: 

For  she  goes  bare-footed, 

Like  Venus  or  Cupid, 

And  who'd  be  so  stupid 
To  put  her  in  silk? 

When  her  sweet  foot  and  ankle 

The  dew  drops  bespangle, 

As  she  trips  o'er  the  lawn 

At  the  blush  of  the  dawn — 

As  she  trips  o'er  the  lawn 
With  her  pail  full  of  milk! 

For  the  dance,  when  arrayed, 

See  this  bright  mountain  maid, 

If  her  hair  she  would  braid, 
With  young  beauty's  fond  lure, 

O'er  some  clear  fountain  stooping, 

Her  dark  tresses  looping, 
Diana  herself  had  not  mirror  more  pure! 

How  lovely  that  toilet, 

Would  fashion  dare  soil  it, 

With  paint  or  with  patches, 
When  nature  bestows, 

A  beauty  more  simple, 

In  mirth's  artless  dimple, 

Heav'n's  light  In  her  eye, 

The  soft  blue  of  the  sky, 

Heav'n's  light  in  her  eye, 
And  a  blush  like  the  rose! 


HAD  I  A  HEART. 

Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  fram'd, 

I  ne'er  could  injure  you; 
For  tho'  tongue  no  promise  claim'd, 

Your  charms  would  make  me  true; 
To  you  no  soul  shall  bear  deceit, 

No  stranger  offer  wrong, 
But  friends  in  all  the  ag'd  you  meet, 

And  lovers  in  the  young. 
But  when  they  learn  that  you  have  bless'd 

Another  with  your  heart, 
They'll  bid  aspiring  passion  rest, 

And  act  a  brother's  part. 
Then,  lady,  dread  not  here  deceit, 

Nor  fear  to  suffer  wrong; 
For  friends  in  all  the  ag'd  you'll  meet, 

And  brothers  in  the  young. 

0!    OPEN  THE  DOOR. 

O!  open  the  door,  some  pity  to  shew; 

O!  open  the  door  to  me,   O! 
Tho'  thou  hast  been  false,  I'll  ever  prove  true! 

O!  open  the  door  to  me!  O! 
"O!  cold  Is  the  blast  upon  my  pale  cheek, 

But  colder  thy  love  for  me,  O! 
The  frost  that  freezes  the  life  at  my  breast 

Is  naught  to  my  pains  for  thee,  O! 


198  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

"The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave, 

And  time  is  setting  with  me,  O! 
False  friends,  false  love,  farewell— for  more 

I'll  ne'er  trouble  them,  nor  thee,  O!" 
She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  open'd  it  wid«; 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  O! 
"My  true  love!"  she  cried,  and  sunk  down  by  his  sidt, 

O!  never  to  rise  again,  O! 


NORA    CREINA,    SEE   THE    FLOW'RS. 

Nora  Creina,  see  the  flow'rs, 

The  lovely  flow'rs  that  all  seem'd  perish'd, 
The  tendrils  we  together  trained, 

The  blossoms  we  so  fondly  cherish'd. 
Now  beneath  the  summer's  sun, 

Gladly   walking,   gaily  springing, 
O'er  the  bow'r  their  trellis  weave, 

Sweetest  perfumes  round  thee  flinging, 
Nora  Creina!  Nora  Dear! 

Lovely  darling,  Nora  Creina! 
Nora  Creina!  Nora  Dear! 

Lovely  darling,  Nora  Creina? 
Nora  Creina,  see  the  birds, 

We  thought  for  ever  flown  away,  love, 
Whose  nest  was  in  the  linden  tree, 

Whose  young  would  round  thy  footsteps  play,  IOT«, 
Now  the  weary  winter's  past, 

O'er  the  wild  wave  gaily  winging, 
Come  to  seek  thy  smiles  again, 

'Neath  thy  lattice  sweetly  singing, 
Nora  Creina  Nora  dear! 

Spirits  watch  o'er  Nora  Creina! 
Nora  Creina!  Nora  dear! 

Thus  my  love  is  thine  forever; 
Tho'  stern  fate's  decree  is  past, 

Two  fond  hearts  awhile  to  sever. 
Nora,  darling!  wipe  away, 

The  tear  that's  in  thy  blue  eye  starting! 
Soon,   love,  we  shall  meet  again, 

And  still  more  fondly  for  the  parting, 
Nora  Creina!  Nora  dear! 

My  sweet,  my  own  my  Nora  Creina! 

THE    EXILE'S    REQUEST. 

Oh,   Pilgrim,   if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a  sign, 
Let  It  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land,   once  mine; 
A  shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 
For  I  was  born  in  Ireland — I  glory  in  the  name — 
I  weep  for  all  her  sorrows,   I  remember  well   her  fame! 
And  still  my  heart  must  hope  that  I  may  yet  repose  at  rest, 
On  the  Holy  Zion  of  my  youth,  in  the  Israel  of  the  West. 
Her  beauteous  face  is  furrowed  with  sorrow's  streaming  rains. 
Her   lovely   limbs   are  mangled   with   slavery's   ancient  chains, 
Yet,   Pilgrim,   pass   not  over  with  heedless  heart  or  eye, 
The  Island  of  the  gifted,  and  of  men  who  knew  to  die. 
Like  the  crater  of  a  fire-mount,  all  without  is  bleak  and  bare, 
But  the  vigor  of  its  lips  still  show  what  fire  and  force  were  there. 
Even  now  in  the  heaving  craters,   far  from  the  gazer's  ken, 
The  fiery  heel  is  forging  that  will  crush  her  foes  again. 
Then,  Pilgrim,  if  you  bring  me  from  the  far-off  lands  a  sign, 
Let  it  be  some  token  still  of  the  green  old  land,  once  mine; 
A   shell  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  would  be  dearer  far  to  me, 
Than  all  the  wines  of  the  Rhine  land,  or  the  art  of  Italie. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 

NO,    NOT    MOKE    WELCOME. 

No,  not  more  welcome  the  fairy  numbers 

Of  music  fall  on  the  sleeper's  ear, 
When  half  awaking  from  fearful  slumbers. 

He  thinks  the  full  choir  of  heav'n  is  near, 
Then   came  that  voice,   when,  all   forsaken, 

This  heart  long  had  sleeping  lain, 
Nor  thought  its  cold  pulse  would  ever  waken 

To  such  benign  blessed  sounds  again. 
Sweet  voice  of  comfort,  'twas  like  the  stealing, 

Of  summer  wind  thro'  some  wretched  shell; 
Each  secret  winding,  each  inmost  feeling 

Of  all  my  soul  echoed  to  its  spell. 
'Twas  whispered  balm — 'twas  sunshine  spoken! 

I'd  live  years  of  grief  and  pain 
To  have  my  long  sleep  of  sorrow  broken 

By  such  benign  blessed  sounds  again.  „ 

THE    BRISK    IRISH   IAD. 

•Each  pretty  young  Miss,  with  a  long,  heavy  purse, 
Is  courted  and  flatter'd,  and  easily  had; 

She  longs  to  be  taken  for  better  or  worse, 
And  quickly  elopes  with  an  Irish  lad, — 
To  be  sure  she  don't  like  a  brisk  Irish  lad, 
To  be  sure  she  don't  like  a  brisk  Irish  lad, 
Oh!  to  be  sure  she  don't  like  a  brisk  Irish  lad. 

The  wife  when  forsaken  for  bottle  or  dice, 
Her  dress  all  neglected,  and  sighing  and  sad, 

Finds  delight  in  sweet  converse,  and  changes  her  sighs 
For  the  good  humor'd  chat  of  an  Irish  lad. 

Oh!  to  be  sure,  etc. 

The  widow  in  sorrow  declines  the  sweet  joys 

Of  public  amusement,  in  sable  all  clad 
The  widow  her  twelvemonth  in  mourning  employs, 

Then  hastens  ?o  church  with  an  Irish  lad. 

Oh!  to  be  sure,  etc. 


OH!    WHEN  I  BREATH'D. 

Oh!  when  I  breath'd  a  last  adieu 
To  Erin's  vales  and  mountains  blue, 
Where  nurs'd  by  hope  my  moments  flew, 

In  life's  unclouded  spring; 
Though  on  the  breezy  deck  reclin'd 
I  listen'd  to  the  rising  wind, 
What  fetters  could  restrain  the  mind 

That  roved  on  Fancy's  wing? 

She  bore  me  to  the  woodbine  bow'r, 
Where  oft  I  pass'd  the  twilight  hour, 
When  first  I  felt  love's  thrilling  pow'r, 

From  Kathleen's  beaming   eye; 
Again  I  watch'd  her  flushing  breast; 
Her  honey'd  lip  again  was  prest; 
Again,  by  sweet  confessions  blest, 

I  drank  each  melting  sigh 

Dost  thou,  Kathleen,  my  loss  deplore, 
And  lone  on  Erin's  emerald  shore, 
In  memory  trace  the  love  I  bore, 

On  all  our  transports  dwell? 
Can  I  forget  th«  fatal  day 
That  call'd  me  from  thy  arms  away, 
When  nought  was  left  m»  but  to  say 

"Farewell,  my  love— farewell!" 


200  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

YOUNG   ELLEN   LOEAINE. 

When  I  parted  from  Erin  heart-broken,  to  leave  thee, 

I  dream'd  not  of  falsehood,  young  Ellen  Loraine, 
I  thought,  tho"  but  woman,  thou  wouldst  not  deceive  me — 

Ah!  why  art  thou  faithless,  young  Ellen  Loraine, 
I  lov'd  thee  in  sorrow,  I  sought  thee  in  danger, 

And  dear  was  the  peril  and  sweet  was  the  pain, 
But  now  is  thy  look  as  the  look  of  a  stranger — 

Ah!  why  art  thou  faithless,  young  Ellen  Loraine? 
O!  thou  wert  the  vision  that  brightened  my  pillow, 

The  star  of  my  darkness,  young  Ellen  Loraine, 
As  the  bloom  to  the  rose,  as  the  sun  to  the  billow, 

Thou  cam'st  to  my  slumber,  young  Ellen  Loraine. 
Thou'lt  think  of  me  yet,  when  the  false  world  deceives  thee, 

And  friends  of  gay  fortune,  look  cold  on  thy  wane, 
When  the  sheen  on  thy  cheek,  like  the  summer  light  leaves  thee, 

Thou.'ll  think  how  I  lov'd  thee,  young  Ellen  Loraine. 
O!  speak  not  to  me;  in  those  eyes  I  discover 

The  wrongs  thou  hast  done  me,  young  Ellen  Loraine, 
To  rest  in  the  arms  of  a  happier  lover, 

Go,  lovely,  but  faithless,  young  Ellen  Loraine! 
The  moment  of  rapture,  the  vow  and  the  token 

They  thrill  In  my  bosom,  and  burn  in  my  brain, 
Go,  false  one,  and  laugh  at  the  heart  thou  has't  broken. 

Go,  lovely,  but  faithless,  young  Ellen  Loraine. 


THE    ROSE    OF    KILLARNEY. 

Thro'  Erin's  green  and  bonny  isle, 

From  Coleraine  to  Killarney's  waters, 

Each  lovely  haunt  hath,  had  its  song, 

Of  gallant  sons  and  charming  daughters! 

But  O!  there  is  one  sunny  spot, 

To  me  more  dear,   more  priz'd  than  any, 

Where  first  in  loveliness  sprung  up 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarney, 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarney,  blossoms  in  Killaruey, 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarney,  blossoms  in  Killarney. 

I  thought  when  first  her  eye  met  mine, 

My  peace,  my  heart  were  gone  forever, 

I  did  not  dare  to  speak  of  love, 

For  fear  a  breath  the  charm  should  sever; 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  rose  of  May, 

Her  voice  hath  banish'd  care  from  many, 

No  thought  can  wrong  my  bonny  flow'r, 

The  rose  that  blossoms  in  Killarney. 

The  rose,  etc. 

LOVE'S    LONGINGS. 

To  the  conqueror  his  crowning, 

First  freedom   to   the   slave. 
And  air  unto  the  drowning, 

Sunk  In  the  ocean's  wave; 
And  succor  to  the  faithful, 

Who  fight  their  flag  above, 
Are  sweet,  but  far  less  grateful 

Than  were  my  lady's  love. 
I  know  I  am  not  worthy 

Of  one  so  young  and  bright; 
And  yet  I  would  do  for  thee 

Far  more  than  others  might; 
I  cannot  give  you  pomp  or  gold, 

If  you  should  be  my  wife, 
But  I  can  give  you  love  untold, 

And  true  in  death  or  life. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  201 

Methinks  that  there  are  passions 

Within   that   heaving   breast 
To  scorn  their  heartless  fashions, 

And   wed   whom  you  love  best. 
Methinks  you  would  be  prouder 

As   the   struggling  patriot's   bride, 
Than  if  rank  your  home  should  crowd,  or 

Cold  riches  round  you  glide. 
O!  the  watcher  longs  for  morning, 

And  the  infant  cries   for  light, 
And  the  saint  for  Heaven's  warning, 

And  the  vanquished  pray  for  might; 
But  their  prayer,  when  lowest  kneeling, 

And  their  suppliance  most  true. 
Are  cold  to  the  appealing 

Of  this  longing  heart  to  you. 

ELLEN  BAWN. 

Ellen  Bawn,  O,  Ellen  Bawn,  you  darling,  darling  dear,  you,  . 

Sit  awhile  beside  me  here,   I'll  die  unless  I'm  near  you! 

'Tis  for  you  I'd  swim  the  Suir  and  breast  the  Shannon's  waters: 

For  Ellen  dear,  you've  not  your  peer  in  Galway's  blooming  daughters! 

Had  I  Limerick's  gems  and  gold  at  will  to  mete  and  measure, 

Were  Loughrea's  abundance  mine,  and  all  Portumna's  treasure, 

These  might  lure  me,  might  insure  me  many  and  many  a  new  love, 

But  O!  no  bribe  could  pay  your  tribe  for  One  like  you,  my  true  love! 

Blessings  be  on  Connaught!  that's  the  place  for  sport  and  raking! 

Blessings,    too,   my   love,   on   you,   a-sleeping  and  a-waking! 

I'd  have  met  you,   dearest  Ellen,   when  the  sun  went  under, 

But,  woe!  the  flooding  Shannon  broke  across  my  path  in  thunder! 

Ellen!  I'd  give  all  the  deer  in  Limerick's  parks  and  arbors, 

Ay,  and  all  the  ships  that  rode  last  year  in  Munster's  harbors, 

Could  I  blot  from  Time  the  hour  I  first  became  your  lover, 

For  O!  you've  given  my  heart  a  wound  it  never  can  recover! 

Would  to  God  that  in  the  sod  my  corpse*  to-night  were  lying, 

And  the  wild  birds  wheeling  o'er  it,  and  the  winds  a-sighing, 

Since  your  cruel  mother  and  your  kindred  choose  to  sever 

Two  Hearts  that  Love  would  blend  in  one  for  ever  and  for  ever! 


ALLY  CROAKER. 

There  once  lived  a  man!  in  Balinacrazy, 
Who  wanted  a  wife,  to  make  him  unasy, 
Long  had  he  sigh'd  for  dear  Ally  Croaker, 
And  thus  the  gentle  youth  he  bespoke  her, 
"Will  you  marry  me, 
Dear  Ally  Croaker? 
Will  you  marry  me, 

Dear  Ally  Croaker?" 

This  artless  young  man  just  come  from  the  schoolery, 
A  novice  in  love,  and  all  its  sad  foolery, 
Too  dull  for  a  wit,  too  grave  for  a  joker, 
And  thus  the  gentle  youth  he  bespoke  her— 

"Will  you  marry  me,"  etc. 

He  drank  with  the  father,  he  talk'd  with  the  mother, 
He  danc'd  with  the  sister,  he  gam'd  with  the  brother, 
He  gam'd  till  he  lost  his  coat  to  the  broker, 
Which  lost  him  the  heart  of  his  dear  Ally  Croaker. 

Oh!  the  fickle,  etc. 

To  all  you  young  men  who  are  fond  of  gaming, 
And  losing  your  money  while  others  are  saving; 
Fortune's  a  jilt — the  divil  may  choke  her! 
A  jilt  more  inconstant  than  dear  Ally  Croaker. 

Oh!  the  inconstant,  etc. 


202  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

ERIN,   MY    COUNTRY. 

Oh,    Erin,    my  country!   although   thy   harp   slumbers. 

And   lies   in   oblivion   in  Tara's   old  hall, 
With  scarce  one  kind  hand  to  awaken  its  numbers, 

Or  sound   a  lone  dirge  to  the  Son   of  Fingal; 
The  trophies  of  warfare  may  hang  there  neglected, 

For  dead  are  the  warriors  to  whom  they  were  known; 
But  the  harp  of  old  Erin  will  still  be  respected, 

While  there  lives  but  one  bard  to  enliven  its  tone. 
Oh,  Erin,  my  country!  I  love  thy  green  bowers, 

No  music's  to  me  like  thy  murmuring  rills, 
Thy  shamrock  to  me  is  the  fairest  of  flowers. 

And  nought  is  more  dear  than  thy  daisy-clad  hills; 
Thy  caves,   whether  used  by  thy  warriors  or  sages, 

Are  still   sacred   held   in   each  Irishman's  heart, 
And  thy  ivy-crowned  turrets,  the  pride  of  past  ages, 

Though  mouldering  in  ruins,  do  grandeur  impart! 
Britannia  may  vaunt  of  her  lion  and  armor, 

And  glory  when  she  her  old  wooden  walls  views; 
Caledonia,  may  boast  of  her  pibroch  and  claymore, 

And  pride  in  her  philabeg,  kilt  and  her  hose. 
But  where  is  the  nation  to  rival  old  Erin.* 

Or  where  is  the  country  such  heroes  can  boast? 
In  battle  they're  brave  as  the  tiger  or  lion, 

And  bold  as  the  eagle  that  flies  'round  our  coast! 
The  breezes  oft  shake  both  the  rose  and  the  thistle, 

While  Erin's  green  shamrock  lies  hushed  in  the  dale; 
In  safety  it  rests,   while  the  stormy  winds  whistle, 

And  grows  undisturbed  'midst  the  moss  of  the  vale; 
Then,  hail!  fairest  island  In  Neptune's  old  ocean! 

Thou   land  of  Saint  Patrick,  my  parent  agra! 
Cold — cold  must  the  heart  be,  and  void  of  emotion 

That  loves  not  the  music  of  "Erin-go-Bragh!" 

THE   IRISH    RAPPAREES. 

Righ  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France,  and  left  his  crown  behind- 
Ill  luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,   put  runnin*  in  his  mind! 
Lord  Lucan  followed  after,  with  his  Slashers  brave  and  true, 
And   now   the   doleful    keen   is   raised — "What  will   poor    Ireland   do? 

What  must  poor  Ireland  do? 

Our  luck,"  they  say,  "has  gone  to  France — what  can  poor  Ireland  do?" 
O,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  so'gers  still, 
For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Remy's  on  th.e  hill; 
And   never   had   poor   Ireland   more   loyal   hearts  than   these — 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rapparees! 

The  fearless  Rapparees! 

The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees! 
Oh,  black's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  coulder  than  the  clay! 
Oh,  high's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since  Sarsfield's  gone  away! 
It's  little  love  you  bear  to  us,  for  sake  of  long  ago, 
But  howld  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a  deadly  blow — 

Can   strike  a  mortal  blow — 

Och!  dhar-a-Chreesth!  'tis  she  that  still  could  strike  the  deadly  blow! 
The  Master's  bawn,  the  Master's  seat,  a  surly  bodagh  fills; 
The  Master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the  hills. 
But,  God  be  praised,  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick  as  summer  bees, 
The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall — his  loyal  Rapparees! 

His   lovin'    Rapparees. 

Who  dare  say  no  to  Rory  Oge,  with  all  his  Rapparees? 
Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long  and  sore — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke! — we'll  never  see  them  more! 
But  I'll  go  bail  he'll  break  no  more,  while  Truagh  has  gallows-trees, 
For  why?— he  met,    one   lonesome   night,   the  fearless  Rapparees! 

The  angry   Rapparees! 
They  never  sin  no  more,  "my  boys,  who  cross  the  Rapparees! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  203 

Now,  Sassenach  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what  I  say — 

Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks,  that  scorn  us  night  and  day; 

For  there's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge  that  every  action  sees, 

And  He'll  make  strong,   to  right  our  wrong,  the  faithful  Rapparees! 

The    fearless    Rapparees! 
The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the  roving  Rapparees! 

HERE'S    THE    BOW'R. 

Here's  the  bow'r  she  lov'd  so  much, 

And   the  tree  she  planted; 
Here's  the  harp  she  used  to  touch — 

Oh!   how  that   touch   enchanted! 
Roses  now  unheeded   sigh, 

Where's  the  hand  to  wreathe  them? 
Songs  around   neglected  lie, 

Where's  the  lip  to  breathe  them? 
Here's  the  bow'r  she  lov'd  so  much, 

And  the  tree  she  planted; 
Here's  the  harp  she  used  to  touch — 

Oh!   how  that  touch  enchanted! 
Spring  may  bloom,  but  she  we  lov'd 

Ne'er   shall   feel   its   sweetness; 
Time,   that  once  so  fleetly  moved, 

Now  hath  lost  its  fleetness. 
Years    were    days,    when    here   she   strayed; 

Days  were  moments  near  her. 
Heav'n  ne'er  formed  a  brighter  maid, 

Nor  pity  wept  a  dearer! 
Here's   the  bow'r   she  lov'd  so  much 

And  the  tree  she  planted; 
Here's  the  harp  she  us'd  to  touch — 

Oh!   how  that  touch  enchanted! 


THE   BOATMAN   OF   KINSALE. 

His  kiss  is  sweet,  his  word  is  kind, 

His  love  is  rich  to  me; 
I  could  not  in  a  palace  find 

A  truer  heart  than  he. 
The  eagle  shelters  not  his  nest 

From   hurricane  and   hail, 
More  bravely  than  he  guards  my  breast— 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 
The  wind  that  round  the  Fastnet  sweeps 

Is  not  a  whit  more  pure — 
The  goat  that  down  Cnoc  Sheehy  leaps 

Has  not  a  foot  more  sure. 
No  firmer  hand  nor  freer  eye 

E'er  faced  an  Autumn  gale — 
De  Courcy's  heart  is  not  so  high— 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 
The  brawling  squires  may  heed  him  not, 

The  dainty  stranger  sneer — 
But  who  will   dare  to  hurt  our  cot, 

When  Myles  O'Hea  is  here? 
The  scarlet  soldiers  pass  along — 

They'd  like,   but  fear  to  rail— 
His  blood  is  hot,  his  blow  is  strong — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 
His  hooker's  in  the  Scilly  van, 

When  seines  are  in  the  foam; 
But  money  never  made  the  man, 

Nor  wealth  a  happy  home; 
So,  blest  with  love  and  liberty, 

While  he  can  trim  a  sail, 
He'll  trust  in  God,  and  cling  to  me— 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 


204  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MY    LAND. 

She   Is  a  rich  and  rare  land; 
Oh!   she's  a  fresh   and  fair  land; 
She  is  a  dear  and  rare  land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

No  men  than  hers  are  braver — 
Her  women's  hearts  ne'er  waver; 
I'd  freely  die  to  save  her, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 

She's  not  a  dull   nor  cold   land- 
No!   she's  a  warm  and  bold   land; 
Oh!    she's   a  true  and   old   land — 
This  native  land  of  mine. 

Could  beauty  ever  guard  her, 
And  virtue  still   reward  her, 
No  foe  would   cross  her  border 
No  friend  within  her  pine! 

Oh,   she's  a  fresh  and  fair  land; 
Oh,   she's  a  true  and  rare  land! 
Yes,  she's  a  rare  and  fair  land— 
This   native   land   of   mine. 


LIGHT   SOUNDS   THE  HARP. 

Light   sounds   the   harp,    when   the   combat   is   over, 

When  heroes  are  resting  and  joy  is  in  bloom; 
When  laurels  hang  loose  from  the  brow  of  the  lover, 
And  Cupid  makes  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume. 
But  when  the  foe  returns, 
Again  the  hero  burns. 

High  flames  the  sword  in  his  hand  once  more; 
The  clang  of  mingling  arms, 
Is  then   the   sound  that   charms, 

And  brazen  notes  of  war,  by  thousand  trumpets  sung. 
Oh!  then  comes  the  harp,  when  the  combat  is  over, 

When  heroes  are  resting,   and   Joy  is  in  bloom; 

When  laurels  hang  loose  from  the  brow  of  the  lover, 

And  Cupid  makes  wings  of  the  warrior's  plume. 

Light  went  the  harp,   when  the  War-God  reclining 

Lay  lull'd  on  the  white  arm  of  beauty  to  rest; 
When   round   his  rich  armor  the  myrtle   hung  twining, 
And  flights  of  young  doves  made  his  helmet  their  nest. 
But  when  the  battle  came, 
The   hero's   eye   breath'd   flame; 
Soon  from  his  neck  the  white  arm  was  flung; 
While  to  his  wak'ning  ear, 
No  other  sounds  were  dear, 

But  the  brazen  notes  of  war,  by  thousand  trumpets  sung. 
But  then  came  the  light  harp,   when  danger  was  ended, 

And  beauty  once  more  lull'd  the  War-God  to  rest; 
When  tresses  of  gold  with  his  laurels  lay  blended, 
And  flights  of  young  doves  made  his  helmet  their  nest. 

THE    LAMENT    FOR    SARSFIELD. 

Ah!  why,  Patrick  Sarsfleld,  did  we  let  your  ship  sail 
Away  to  French  Flanders  from  green  Innisfail, 
For  far  from  your  country  you  lie  cold  and  low; 
Ah!  why,  Patrick  Sarsfleld,  ah,  why  did  you  go. 

We  prayed,  Patrick  Sarsfleld,  to  see  you  sail  home, 
Your  flag  waving  Victory  across  the  white  foam, 
But  still  in  our  fetters,  poor  slaves  we  live  on; 
For  oh,  Patrick  Sarsfleld,  for,  oh!  you  are  gone. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  205 

THE  GREEN  MOSSY  BANKS  OF  THE  LEE. 

When  first  to  this  country  a  stranger, 

Curiosity  caused  me  to   roam; 
Over   Europe  an   exile  I  wandered, 

Far  from   my   American   home. 
At  length  I  arrived  in  sweet  Erin, 

This  land  I  had  long  wished  to  see; 
And  my  footsteps  seemed  guided  by  fairies, 

To  the  green  -mossy  banks  of  the  Lee. 

One  morning  I   carelessly  wandered, 

Where   the    pure   winds   of   heaven   do   blow; 
Down  by  the   clear   crystal   river, 

Where  the  swift  running  waters  do  flow. 
'Twas  there  I  espied  a  fair  damsel, 

Most   modest   appearing  to   me, 
As  she  rose  from  a  seat  near  the  water, 

On  the  green   mossy  banks  of  the   Lee. 

I  stepped  up  and  wished  her  good-morning, 

Her  fair  cheeks  they  blushed  like  the  rose; 
I  said,  then:     "These  meadows  are  charming, 

And   your  escort   I'll   be  if  you   choose!" 
She  said,    then:     "I  ne'er   want  an  escort, 

Kind  sir,   you're  a  stranger  to  me; 
But  yonder    my   father   is   coming, 

On  the  green  mossy  banks  of  the  Lee." 

I  waited  till  up  came  her  father, 

I  plucked  up  my  courage  once  more; 
Said  I,  then:     "If  this  be  your  daughter, 

She  is  truly  the  girl  I  adore. 
Ten  thousand  a  year  is  my  fortune, 

A  lady  your  daughter  shall  be; 
And  ride  with  her  carriage  and  horses 

On  the  green  mossy  banks  of  the  Lee." 

They   welcomed  me  home  to  their  cottage, 

Soon   after   in   wedlock    we   joined; 
'Twas  then  that  I   rented  this  castle, 

In    grandeur    and    splendor    to    shine. 
And  it's  here  our  kind  friends  we  are  greeting, 

Each  knows  what  his  welcome  will  be; 
While  we  both  bless  the  hour  of  our  meeting 

On  the  green  mossy  banks  of  the  Lee. 

Come  all  you  fair  maidens  that's  handsome, 

No   matter   how   poor   you    may   be; 
For  there's  many  a  poor  girl  more  handsome 

Than  those  with  a  large  property; 
With  flattery  let  no   man   deceive   you, 

Not  knowing   what   his   fortune  may   be; 
Like  the  adorable,  gentle  Matilda 

On  the  green  mossy  banks  of  the  Lee. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  MAYO. 

I  am  thinking  to-night  of  my  own  little  darling, 

And  I  know  that  she  is  also  a  thinking  of  me; 
Oh,  won't  I  be  happy  when  on  the  sea  sailing 

Back   to  that  Emerald  isle  of  the  sea. 
To  that  little  thatched  cabin,  the  home  of  my  boyhood, 

I  wished  it  was  morn,  for  I  long  for  to  go. 
To  see  my  old   father  and  loving  old  mother, 

And  my  own  little  Mary,  the  pride  of  Mayo. 

CHORUS. — I  know  that  she   is  patiently  awaiting  my  coming, 

I  think  of  my  darling  wherever  I  go; 
Oh,   won't  I  be  happy  when  on  the  sea  sailing 
To  my  own  little  Mary,  the  pride  of  May*. 


206  HYLAND'S   MAMMOTH 

I  will  never  forget  the  day  that  we  parted, 

I  tried  to  be  cheerful,  but  it  was  a  hard  thing; 
When  my  own  little  darling  says,  fare  thee  well,  Barney! 

And  placed  on  my  finger  this  little  gold  ring. 
The   ship  was  made  ready  and  soon  would  be  starting, 

I  bid  her  good-bye,  for  I  had  for  to  go; 
As  I   kissed  her  and  parted  I  felt  so  down-hearted, 

At  leaving  my  Mary,  the  pride  of  Mayo. 

I  know  that  she  is,  «tc. 

I'D  MOURN  THE  HOPES. 

I'd  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me 

If  thy  smiles  had  left  me,  too; 
I'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

If   thou   wert    like   them   untrue; 
But  while  I've  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  warm  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me; 

That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 

'Tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 

While  fate  leaves  thy   love  to  me; 
'Tis  not  :n  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee 

Were  worth   a  long,   an   endless  year 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear. 

And  tho'  the  hope  be  gone,  love, 

That  long  sparkled  o'er  our  way, 
Oh!  we  shall  journey  on,  love, 

More  safely,  without  its  ray. 
Far  better  lights  shall  win  me 

Along  the  path  I've  yet  to  roam; 
The  mind  that  burns  within  me, 

And  pure  smiles  from  thee  at  home. 

Thus,  when  the  lamp  that  lighted 

The  traveler  at  first  goes  out, 
He  feels  awhile  benighted, 

And  looks  around  in  fear  and  doubt; 
But  soon,   the  prospect  clearing, 

By  cloudless  starlight  on  he  treads, 
And  thinks  no  lamp  so  cheering 

As  that  light  which  heaven  sheds. 


THE   HOLLY   AND   IVY   GIRL. 

Come  buy  my  nice  fresh  ivy 

And  my  holly  boughs  so  green, 
I  have  the  fairest  branches 

That  ever  yet  were  seen, 
Come  buy  from  me  good  Christians, 

And  let  me  home  I  pray, 
And  I'll  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  time. 

And  a  happy  New  Year's  Day. 

Ah!  won't  you  take  my  ivy? 

The  loveliest  ever  seen. 
Ah!  won't  you  have  my  holly  boughs? 

All  you  that  love  the  Green. 
Do! — take  a  little  bunch  of  each 

And  on  my  knees  I'll  pray. 
That  God   may  bless  your  Christmas 

And  be  with  you  New  Year's  Day. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  207 

AN  IRISHMAN'S  TOAST. 

Don't  call  me  weak-minded,  perchance  I  should  sing 

Of  the  dearest  old  spot  upon  earth; 
And  don't  think  me  foolish  should  memory  bring 

To  my  mind  the  dear  land  of  my  birth. 
With  its  hills  and  its  valleys,  its  mountains  and  vales, 

Of  which   our   forefathers   would  boast; 
Of  a  dear  little  island  all  covered  with  green — 

Ah!  but  list'  and  I'll  give  you  an  Irishman's  toast: 

CHORUS.— Here's  to  the  land  of  the  shamrock  so  green, 
Here's  to  each  boy  and  his  darling  colleen; 
Here's  to  the  ones  we   love  dearest  and  most, 
May  God  speed  old  Ireland — that's  an  Irishman's  toast. 

My  mind's  eye  oft  pictures  my  old  cabin  home, 

Where    it   stood    by   the   murmuring    rill; 
Where  my  playmates  and  I  oft  together  did  roam 

Through  the  castle  that  stood   on   the  hill. 
But  the  stout  hand  of  time  has  destroyed  the  old  cot, 

And    the   farm   now   lies   barren    and   bare; 
Around  the  old  porch   there   is  ivy  entwined, 

But  the  birds  seem  to  warble  this  toast  in  the  air: 

Here's  to  the  land,  etc. 

The  church  and  the  school-house  have  long  been  replaced, 

In  the  Harp   Hotel  dwells  a  new   host; 
The  white-haired  old  veteran  has  long  been  at  rest, 

And   his  wife  has  deserted  her  post. 
King  Death,  the  stern  reaper,  has  called  them  away, 

And   their    children   have    gone    o'er    the   seas; 
There  is  nothing  but  strangers  around  the  old  spot, 

Still  this  toast  seems  to  waft  to  my  ears  on  the  breeze: 

Here's  to  the  land,  etc. 

WHERE  THE   GRASS   GROWS   GREEN. 

I'm  Denny  Blake,  from  the  County  Clare, 

An3    here   at   your   command, 
To  sing  a  song  in  praise  of  home, 

My  own,  my  native  land. 
I've    sailed    to    foreign    countries, 

And   in    many   climes   I've  been, 
But  my  heart  is  still  with  Erin, 

Where   the   grass  grows  green. 

CHORUS. — I  love  my   native   country, 

And   tho'    richer   lands    I've  seen 
Yet   I    can't  forget   ould   Erin, 
Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

Poor   Pat   is  often  painted 

With  a  ragged  coat  and  hat; 
His  heart  and  hospitality 

Has   much  to  do  with  that. 
Let  slanderers   say    what  they  will, 

They  cannot  call  him   mean; 
Sure  a  stranger's  always  welcome 

Where  the  grass   grows   green. 

I  love  my  native  country,  etc. 

He's  foolish,   but  not  vicious, 

His   faults   I   won't  defend; 
His  purse  to  help  the  orphan, 

His   life  to  serve  a  friend. 
He'll  give  without  a  murmur, 

So  his  follies  try   and  screen; 
For  there's  noble  hearts  in   Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my  native  country,  etc. 


208  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

'Tis   true  he  has   a  weakness 

For  a  drop  of  something  pure, 
But   that's   a  slight   debility 

That  many  more  endure. 
He's   fond   of   fun,   he's   witty, 

Though  his  wit  'tis   not  too   keen, 
For  there's  feeling  hearts  in  Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my  native  country,  etc. 

There's  not  a  true-born  Irishman, 

Wherever   he   may   be, 
But   loves   the    little   emerald 

That  sparkles  on   the   sea. 
May  the  sun  of  bright  prosperity 

Shine  peaceful   and  serene, 
And  bring  better  days  to  Erin, 

Where  the  grass  grows  green. 

I  love  my  native  country,  etc. 

MAUREEN  MAVOURNEEN. 

Maureen  Mavourneen,   now  list  to  my  calling, 

As   softly    'tis   echoed    from   woodland   and   brake; 
From  the  wings  of  the  night  are  silently  falling 

The  shadows  that  sleep  on  the  breast  of  the  lake. 
Oh,  see  where  the  moonlight  is  kissing  the  hill, 

And  Venus  is  lighting  her  lamp  in  the  sky; 
Then  come  with  me,   Maureen,  we'll  wander  at  will, 

And  breathe  the  sweet  perfume  the  night  flowers  sigh. 

Oh,   could  we  thus   ever   drink  deep  of  the  bliss, 

That  flows  from  the  fount  of  our  young  hearts'  fond  love; 
Like  a  smile  of  yon  heaven  reflected  in  this, 

On,  who  from  Killarney  could  tempt  us  to  rove? 
As  peaceful  and  calm  as  that  lake,   that  we  see 

Reposing  to-night  in  its  beauty  serene; 
Would  the  hours  of  a  life  that's  centered  in  thee, 

Flow  pure  and  unchanging,  my  colleen  Maureen. 

THE   GLEN  OF  AHERLOW. 

My  name  is  Patrick  Sheehan,  my  years  are  thirty-four, 
Tipperary  is  my  native  place,  not  far  from  Galtymore; 
I  cams  of  honest  parents — but  now  they're  lying  low — 
And  many  a  pleasant  day  I  spent  in  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

My  father  died,  I  closed  his  eyes  outside  our  cabin  door — 

The  landlord  and  the  sheriff,  too,  were  there  the  day  before — 

And  then  my  loving  mother,  and  sisters  three  also, 

Were  forced  to  go  with  broken  hearts  from  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

For  three  long  months,   in    search   of  work,   I  wandered  far   and  near; 

I   went   then  to  the  poor-house  to  see  my   mother  dear; 

The  news  I   heard  nigh  broke  my  heart,  but   still,   in  all  my  woe, 

I   blessed   the  friends  who  made   their  graves  in  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

Bereft  of  home,  and  kith  and  kin,  with  plenty  all  around, 
I  starved  within  my  cabin,  and  slept  upon  the  ground; 
But  cruel  as  my  lot  was,  I  ne'er  did  hardship  know, 
'Till  I  joined  the  English  army,  far  away  from  Aherlow. 

"Rouse  up  there,"  says  the  corporal,  "you  lazy  Hirlsh  "ound; 
Why,   don't  you  hear,   you   sleepy  dog,   the  call   'to  arms!'   sound?" 
Alas,  I  had  been  dreaming  of  days  long,  long  ago; 
I  woke  before  Sebastopol,  and  not  in  Aherlow. 

I  groped  to  find  my  musket— how  dark  I  thought  the  night; 

0  blessed  God,   it  was  not  dark,  it  was  the  broad  daylight! 
And  when  I  found  that  I  was  blind  my  tears  began  to  flow, 

1  Icmged  f«r  «v«n  a  pauper's  grave  in  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  209 

O  blessed  Virgin  Mary,  mine  is  a  mournful  tale, 
A  poor  blind  prisoner  here  I  am,  in  Dublin's  dreary  jail; 
Struck  blind  within  the  trenches,  where  I  never   feared  the  toe, 
And  now  I'll  never  see  again  my  own  sweet  Aherlow. 

A  poor  neglected  mendicant  I  wandered  through  the  street, 
My  nine  months'  pension  now  being  out  I  beg  from  all  I  m««t; 
As  I  joined  my  country's  tyrants,  my  face  I'll  never  shovr 
Among  the  kind  old  neighbors  in  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 

Then,   Irish  youths — dear  countrymen — take  heed  of  what  I  say, 
For  if  you  join  the  English  ranks  you'll  surely  rue  the  day; 
And  whenever  you  are  tempted  a  soldiering  to  go, 
Remember  poor  blind  Sheehan  of  the  Glen  of  Aherlow. 


I   LEFT   IRELAND   AND   MOTHER  BECAUSE  WE 
WERE   POOR. 

There's  a  dear  spot  in  Ireland  that  I  long  to  see, 
It's  my  own  native  birth-place,  and  it's  heaven  to  me; 
Shure  my  poor  widowed  mother  lived  there  all  alone, 
With  my  brothers  and  sisters  'twas  a  bright,  happy  home. 
Shure  we  hadn't  much  money,  but  my  own  mother,  dear, 
To  me  gave  her  blessing,  bade  my  heart  be  good  cheer; 
Then  the  shadow  of  poverty  darkened  our  door, 
And  I  left  Ireland  and  mother  because  we  were  poor. 
CHORUS.— Oh!  my  thoughts  oft  go  back  to  that  dear  little  spot. 
To  my  brothers  and  sisters,  and  the  little  thatched  cot, 
To  my  poor  widowed  mother — I'll  ne'er  see  her  more, 
'Twas  a  shame,  but  I  left  her  because  we  were  poor. 
I  will  never  forget,  on  that  bright,  rosy  morn 
When  old  Ireland  I  left,  how  my  poor  heart  did  mourn, 
When  my  blessed  old  mother  said  be  of  good  cheer, 
Good-bye,  Michael,  darling — farewell,  mother,  dear. 
Then  my  brothers  and  sisters  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  bade  me  do  right  when  I  left  Ireland; 
Then  I  bade  them  good-bye  at  our  cottage  door, 
And  left  Ireland  and  mother  because  we  were  poor. 

Oh!    my  thoughts  oft  go  back,  etc. 
Since  leaving  old  Ireland  my  poor  mother's  dead, 
God  bless  and  protect  him,  were  the  fast  words  she  said; 
And  the  ring  that  my  father  gave  she  sent  to  me, 
'Tis  a  far  dearer  prize  than  bright  gems  could  e'er  be. 
And  my  brothers  and  sisters  I  wish  they  were  here. 
For  I'm  longing  to  see  them,  but  they'll  come,  never  fear; 
I've  a  neat  little  cot  on  America's  shore. 
Where  happy  we'll  live,  yes,  although  we  are  poor. 

Oh!    my  thoughts  oft  go  back,  etc. 

DEAR  LITTLE   COLLEEN. 

Soon  you'll  be  sailing  o'er  the  wide  ocean, 

Leaving  old  Erin  to  see  it  no  more; 
Tears  that  are  falling  speak  my  devotion, 

Dear  little  Colleen,   'tis  you  I  adore. 
Oh!    bring  me  my  darling  to  bless  and  to  cheer  me, 

One  sweet  bit  of  shamrock  from  over  the  sea; 
Fondly  'twill  whisper  when  you  are  near  me, 

Whisper,  dear  Colleen,  of  home  unto  me. 
CHORUS. — Oh!    bring  me  my  darling  to  bless  and  to  cheer  me, 
One  sweet  bit  of  shamrock  from  over  the  sea; 

Fondly  'twill  whisper  when  you  are  near  me, 

Whisper,   dear  Colleen,  of  home  unto  me. 
Weary,   I've  waited,  most  broken-hearted, 

Dreaming  of  days  when  we  strayed  side  by  side; 
Life  has  been  lonely  since  we  were  parted, 

Dear  little  Colleen,  my  treasure  and  pride. 


210  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

Oh!    bring  me  my  darling  to  bless  and  to  cheer  me, 
One  sweet  bit  of  shamrock  from  over  the  sea; 

Fondly  'twill  whisper  when  you  are  near  me, 
Whisper,  dear  Colleen,  of  home  unto  me. 

Oh!    bring  me  my  darling,  etc. 

BARNEY  McCOY. 

I  am  going  far  away,  Norah,  darling, 

And   leaving  such  an   angel  far  behind; 

It  will  break  my  heart  in  two,  which  I  fondly  gave  to  you, 

And  no  other  one  so  loving,  kind  and  true. 
CHORUS. — Then  come  to  my  arms,   Norah,  darling, 

Bid  your  friends  in  dear  old  Ireland  good-bye, 

And  it's  happy  we  will  be,  in  that  dear  land  of  the  free, 

Living  happy  with  your  Barney  McCoy. 

I  would  go  with  you,  Barney,  darling, 

But  the  reason  why  I  told  you  oft  before: 

It  would  break  my  poor  mother's  heart  if  from  her  I  had  to  part, 

And  go  roaming   with  you,   Barney  McCoy. 

Then  come  to  my  arms,  etc. 

I  am  going  far  away,  Norah,  darling, 

Just  as  sure  as  there's  a  God  that  I  adore, 

But  remember  what  I  say,  that  until  the  judgment  day, 

You  will  never  see  your  Barney  any  more. 

Then  come  to  my  arms,  etc. 

I  would  go  with  you,  Barney,   darling, 

If  my  mother  and  the  rest  of  them  were  there, 

For  I  know  we  would  be  blest  in  that  dear  land  of  the  West, 

Living  happy  with  you,  Barney  McCoy. 

Then  come  to  my  arms,  etc. 

I  am  going  far  away,  Norah,  darling, 

And  the  ship  is  now  anchored  at  the  bay, 

And  before  to-morrow  you  will  hear  the  signal  gun, 

So  be  ready — it  will  carry  us  away. 

Then  come  to  my  arms,  etc. 

MY   IRISH   WIFE. 

I  would   not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land — 
I   would   not  give  my   Irish   wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand. 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life — 
An  outlaw— so  I'm  near  her 

To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 
O,  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine — 

A  ruined,   hermit-hunted  place, 
But  for  the   light  that  nightly  shines 

Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen's  face? 
What  comfort  in  a  mine  of  gold — 

What   pleasure   in  a  royal   life, 
If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 

If  I  could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife? 
I   knew  the   law  forbade  the  banns — 

I  knew  my  King  abhorred  her  race — 
Who    never   bent    before   their   clans, 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies'  grace. 
Take    all    my   forfeited    domain, 

I  cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife — 
Take  knightly  gear  and  noble  name, 

And  I  will  keep  my  Irish   wife. 
My  Irish   wife  has  clear  blue   eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  my  stars  by  night — 
And  twinlike  truth  and  fondness  lie 

Within  her  swelling  bosom   white. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  211 

My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair- 
Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strings 

Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  hear 
Her  bird-like  carol  when  she  sings. 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 
For  all  the  dames  of  Saxon  land — 

I   would   not  give  my   Irish  wife 
For  the  Queen   of  France's  hand. 

For   she  to  me  is   dearer 
Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life — 

In  death  I  would  lie  near  her, 
And  rise  beside   my   Irish   wife. 

THE   LAND   OF   THE   WEST. 

O!  come  to  the  West,  love — O!  come  there  with  me, 

'Tis  a  sweet  land  of  verdure  that  springs  from  the  sea; 

Where  fair  plenty  smiles  from  her  emerald  throne, 

O,  come  to  the  West,   and  I'll  make  thee  my  own! 

I'll  guard  thee,   I'll  tend  thee,   I'll  love  thee  the  best, 

And  you'll  say  there's  no  land  like  the  land  of  the  West! 

The  south  has  its  roses,  and  bright  skies  of  blue, 

But  ours  are  more  sweet  with  love's  own  changeful  hue — 

Half  sunshine,  half  tears,   like  the  girl  I  love  best— 

O!   what  is  the  south  to   the  beautiful  West? 

Then  come  there  with  me,   and  the  rose  on  thy  mouth 

Will  be  sweeter  to  me  than  the  flow'rs  of  the  south. 

The  north  has  its  snow-tow'rs  of  dazzling  array, 

All  sparkling  with  gems  in  the  ne'er  setting  day, 

There  the  storm-king  may  dwell  in  the  halls  he  loves  best, 

But  the  soft-breathing  zephyr  he  plays  in  the  West — 

Then  come  to  the  West,  where  no  cold  wind  doth  blow, 

And  thy  neck  will  seem  fairer  to  me  than  the  snow! 

The  sun  in  the  gorgeous  east  chaseth  the  night, 

When  he  riseth  refreshed  in  his  glory  and  might, 

But  where  doth  he  go  when  he  seeks  his  sweet  rest? 

O!  doth  he  not  haste  to  the  beautiful  West? 

Then  come  there  with  me,  'tis  the  land  I  love  best, 

'Tis  the  land  of  my  sires!  'tis  my  own  darling  West. 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   EARLS. 

To  other  shores  across  the  sea 

We  spread  with  swelling  sail. 
Yet  still  there  lingers  on  our  lee 

A  phantom  Innis  fail. 
Oh!  fear  not,  gentle  ghost, 

Your  sons  shall  prove  untrue. 
Though  fain  to  fly  your  lovely  coast, 

They  leave  their  hearts  with  you. 

As  slowly  into  distance  dim 

Your  shadow  sinks  and  dies 
So  o'er  the  ocean's  utmost  rim 

Another  realm  shall  rise. 
New  hills  shall  swell,   new  vales  expand, 

New  rivers  winding  flow. 
But  could  we  for  a  foster  land 

Your  mother  love  forego? 

Shall  mighty  Espan's  martial  praise 

Our  patriot  pulses  still. 
And  o'er  your  mem'ry's  fervent  rays 

Forever  cast  a  chill? 
Oh  no!  we  live  for  your  relief 

Till  home  from  alien  earth. 
We  share  the  smile  that  gilds  your  grief, 

The  tear  that  dims  your  mirth. 


212  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE   CHOPPY   BOY. 

Good  men  and  true  in  this  house  who  dwell, 

To  a  stranger  bouchal  I  pray  you  tell, 

Is  the  priest  at  home?  or  may  he  be  seen? 

I'd  speak  a  word  with  Father  Green. 

The  priest's  at  home,   boy,   and  may  be  seen, 

'Tis  easy   speaking   with   Father  Green, 

But  you  must  wait  till  I  go  see 

If  the  holy  father  alone  may  be. 

The  youth  has  entered   an  empty  hall — 

What  a  lonely   sound   has   his   light  footfall, 

And  the  gloomy  chamber's  chill   and   bare, 

With  a  vested  priest  in  a  lonely  chair. 

The   youth   has   knelt  to  tell  his   sins, 

"Nomine   Dei"  the   youth  begins; 

At   "mea  culpa"    he  beats   his   breast. 

And  in  broken  accents  he  tells  the  rest. 

"At  the  siege  of  Ross  did  my  father  fall, 

And    at   Gorey    my    loving    brothers   all; 

I  alone  am  left  of  my   name  and   race; 

I  will  go  to  Wexford  to  take  their  place. 

"I  cursed  three  times  since  last  Easter  day, 

At  mass  time  once  I  went  to  play, 

I  passed  the   churchyard  one  day   in  haste 

And  forgot  to  pray  for  my  mother's  rest. 

"I  bear  no  hate  against  living  thing, 

But  I   love  my  country   above  my   king. 

Now,   bless  me,   Father,   that  I  may  go 

To  die,  if  God  hath  ordained  it  so." 

The  priest  said  nought  but  a  rustling  noi 

Made  the  youth  look  up  in  wild  surprise; 

The  robes  are  off  and  in  scarlet  there 

Sat  a  yeoman  captain  with  fiery  glare. 

With   fiery  glare  and  with  fury  hoarse, 

Instead  cf  a  blessing  he  breathed  a  curse— 

"  'Twas  a  good   thought,   boy,    to   come   here  and  ahriv*, 

For  one  short  hour  is  your  time  to  live. 

"Upon  yon  river  three  tenders  float, 

The  priest's  in  one  if  he  isn't  shot — 

We  hold  his  house  for  our  Lord  the  King, 

And  amen,   say  I,  may  all  traitors  swing." 

At  Geneva  barrack  that  young  man  died, 

And  at  Passage  they  have  his  body  laid, 

Good   people  who   live   in   peace  and   joy, 

Give  a  prayer  and  a  tear  for  the  Croppy  Boy. 


ORANGE   AND    GREEN. 

Ireland  rejoice  and   England  deplore, 
Faction  and  feud  are  passing  away. 
'Twas  a  low  voice,  but  'tis  a  loud  roar, 
"Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day!" 

Orange!    Orange! 

Green  and  Orange! 
Pitted  together  in  many  a  fray! 
Lions  in  fight  and  linked  in  their  might, 
Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day. 

Orange!    Orange! 

Green  and  Orange! 
Wave  them  together  o'er  mountain  and  bay! 

Orange    and    Green! 

Our  King  and   our  Queen! 
Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day! 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  213 

Rusty   the  swords   our   fathers  unsheathed — 

William  and  James  are  turned  to  clay; 
Long  did  we  till  the  wrath  they  bequeathed; 
Red  was  the  crop  and  bitter  the  pay! 

Freedom  fled   us! 

Knaves  misled  up! 
Under  the  feet  of  the  foemen  we  lay — 

Riches    and    strength, 

We'll   win   them   at   length, 
For  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day! 

Landlord's    fooled    us; 

England   ruled   us. 
Hounding  our  passions  to  make  us  their  prey! 

But  in  their  spite, 

The   Irish    unite 
And  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day! 

Fruitful   our  soil  where  honest  men  starve; 

Empty  the  mart  and  shipless  the  bay; 
Out  of  our  want  the  Oligarchs  carve; 
Foreigners    fatten    on    our    decay! 

Disunited, 

Therefore    blighted, 
Ruined  and  rent  by  the  Englishman's  sway; 

Party  and  creed 

For  once   have  agreed — 
Orange  and   Green  will  carry  the  day! 

Boyne's  old  water, 

Red    with    slaughter! 
Now  is  as  pure  as  an  infant  at  play; 

So,    in   OUF   souls, 

Its  history   rolls, 
And  Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day! 

English  deceit  can  rule  us  no  more, 

Bigots  and  knaves  are  scattered  like  spray — 
Deep  was  the  oath  the  Orangeman  swore, 
"Orange  and  Green  must  carry  the  day!" 

Orange!    Orange! 

Bless    the    Orange! 
Tories  and  Whigs  grew  pale  with  dismay, 

When,   from  the  North, 

Burst   the   cry    forth, 
"Orange  and  Green  will  carry  the  day." 

No  surrender! 

No    Pretender! 
Never  to  falter  and  never  betray — 

With   an  amen. 

We  swear  it  again, 
Orange  and  Green  shall  carry  the  day. 

NIGHT   CIOSED   ABOUND. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightning  show'd  the  distant  hill, 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day 

Stood  few  and  faint  but  fearless  still. 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal, 

Forever    dimmed,    forever    crossed, 
O,   who  shall  say  what  heroes   feel, 

When  all  but  life  and  honor's  lost! 

The  last  sad  hour  of  freedom's  dream, 

And   valor's  task   moved   slowly  by, 
While  mute  they  watched  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die! 
There  is  a  world  where  souls  are  free. 

Where  tyrants  taint  not  nature's  bliss; 
If  death  that  world's  bright  op'ning  be 

0,  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this? 


214  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

0!    THE   MARRIAGE. 

O!  the  marriage,   the  marriage, 

With  love  and  mo  buachail  for  me, 
The   ladies   that   ride  in   a  carriage 

Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me; 
For  Owen  is  straight  as  a  tower, 

And  tender   and   loving   and   true, 
He  told   me  more   love  in   an  hour 

Than  the  squires  of  the  county  could  do. 
Then,   0!  the  marriage,  the  marriage, 

With  love  and  mo  buachail  for  me, 
The  ladies  that  ride  in  a  carriage 
Might  envy  my  marriage  to  me. 
His  hair  is  a  shower  of  soft  gold, 

His  eye  is  as  clear  as  the  day, 
His  conscience  and   vote   were  unsold 

When   others   were  carried  away; 
His  word  is  as  good  as  an  oath, 

And  freely  'twas  given  to  me; 
0!    sure   'twill  be  happy   for   both 

The  day  of  our  marriage  to  see. 

Then,  O!   the  marriage,   etc. 
His  kinsmen  are  honest  and  kind, 

The  neighbors  think  much   of  his  skill, 
And  Owen's  the  lad  to  my  mind, 

Though  he  owns  neither  castle  nor  mill. 
But  he  has  a  tilloch  of  land, 

A  horse,    and  a  stocking  of  coin, 
A  foot  for  the  dance,  and  a  hand 

In   the  cause  of  his  country  to  join. 

Then,  O!   the  marriage,   etc. 
We  meet  in  the  market  and  fair — 

We  meet  in  the  morning  and  night — 
He  sits  on  the  half  of  my  chair, 

And  my  people  are  wild  with  delight. 
Yet  I  long  through  the  winter  to  skim, 

Though  Owen   longs  more  I  can  see, 
When  I  will  be  married  to  him, 

And  he  will   be  married  to  me. 

Then,  O!   the  marriage,   etc. 

LOVE-DREAMS. 

I  dreamed  that  my  love  was  a  milk-white  doe, 

That  ranged  the  forest  wide; 
And  I  was  a   dappled  mountain  roe, 

That  bounded  by   her   side; 
Our  home  was  the   wild  wood's   lonely  glade. 

Where  hunters  there  were  none; 
We  danced  on  the  harebell  and  couched  in  the  shade, 

And  we  loved  and  lived  alone. 
I  dreamed  that  my  love  was  a  beautiful  bird, 

And  I  her  tuneful  mate; 
And  the  livelong  day  my  song  was  heard, 

So  wild,  so  passionate. 
And  still  when  winter  deformed  the  time, 

We  bent  our  course  o'er  the  sea; 
And  we  built  our  nest  in  a  lovelier  clime, 

'Mid  the  blooms  of  the  orange  tree. 
I  dreamed  that  my  love  was  the  fairy  Queen, 

And   I   an  Elfin  knight, 
That  mixed  with  her  train  when  she  danced  on  the  green, 

Beneath  the  mild  moonlight. 
And,  O!  it  was  merry  in  Fairyland— 

There's  nothing  on  earth  so  sweet 
As  the  music  and  mirth  of  the  spirit  band, 

And  the  twinkling  of  fairy  feet. 


HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER.  215 

MY    CONNOR. 

His  eye  is  as  black  as  the  sloe. 

And  his  skin  is  as  white  as  its  blossom — 
He  loves  me;  but  hate  to  the  foe 

Has  the  innermost  place  in  his  bosom; 
I   forgive   him,   for   sorrow  unmixed, 

His  child,   like  himself,  should  inherit, 
If  hatred  to  chains  had  not  fixed 

The  strong  kernel-stone  in  his  spirit. 

The  lark  never  soars  but  to  sing — 

Nor  sings  but  to  soar;  but  my  Connor 
Surpasses  the  lark  on  the   wing, 

Tho'  walking  the   earth  without  honor! 
The  fetters — the  fetters  awake 

Deep  passionate  songs  that  betoken 
The  part  and  the  place  he  will  take, 

When  bonds  are  held  up  to  be  broken. 

He  loves  me  more  dearly  than  life, 

Yet   would   he   forsake  me  to-morrow, 
And  lose  both  his  blood  and  his  wife, 

To  free  his  loved  island  from  sorrow; 
And  could  I  survive  but  to  see 

The   land   without  shackle   upon  her, 
I  freely  a  widow  would  be, 

Tho'  dearly  I  dote  on  my  Connor. 

There  is  hope  for  the  land  where  the  ties 

'Twixt  husband  and  wife  have  been  reckoned 
As  virtue  the  first,  in  strange  eyes, 

Yet  are,  in  their  own,  but  the  second! 
The  sun  never  shines  from  the  sky, 

If  the  country  be  long  in  dishonor — 
With   women — all  braver  than  I — 

And  men — all  as  brave  as  my  Connor. 

THE   WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
Come  when  you're  looked  for,  or  come  without  warning; 
Kisses  and'welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you, 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you. 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted, 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever, 
And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "true  lovers!  don't  sever." 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you  choose  them; 
Or,   after  you've  kissed   them,   they'll  lie  on   nay  bosom. 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you; 
I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you. 

O!  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vex'd  farmer, 

Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armor; 

I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me, 

Then,  wandering,  I'll  wish  you,  in  silence,  to  love  me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie, 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy, 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give  her. 
O!  she'll  whisper  you,  "Love  as  unchangeably  beaming, 
And  trust,   when  in   secret  most  tunefully  streaming, 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall  quiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 

Come  when  you're  look'd  for,  or  come  without  warning, 

Kisses  and  welcomes  you'll  find  here  before  you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you! 


216 


HTUAND'S    MAMMOTH 

MY' LAND. 


m 


She      IB    (rich  and  rare  lend;  Oh! 


£ 


r  r  i  r  i  r  j  j  i  r  r  r  '  =* 


•he's  a  froth  and     {airland;    She      u    a  dear  and      rare         land,  Thig  na-tiveland  of 


Eir-nr 


iPP 


I  f  j  j  r 

i  r  i  ji 

mine.         No 

^     J              J' 

rr  j  M 

men  than  ben  are 

I  r  *    ^ 

brarer,      Her 

r  j  r 

women's  hearu  ne'ei 

Ifr    r 

waver;          I'd 

Py   s-  "^ 

«T     «: 

diminuendo,  p 

r    r 

tr444^ 

r  r_ 

r  r 

BJ  r  f  -I 

B|r  f  f 

^  J  4  1  J 

B=t=!=± 

1  j  h  J 

J  i.  r.  J 

1  L>    F 

free  -  ly      die    to 

ffi  T  'fl  J  J 

aave         her,  And 

tMnfc  my    lot    di  - 

Tine. 

&£ 

^  f  r  f  *t 

r  r  r  r 

j  jj  j 

1     m 

^  i*  f  J 

v  1"    ^  i 

1  ri"^ 

- 

i^gfrrfrff 

-  ^  j 

She's 

r§^  n 

ir  r  r  r 

not     *    doll  and 

x-™- 

cold  land,    N 

1    1    !•••       ,^ 

r  -T  J  ; 

3, 

|= 

5  ^ 

I^TI  r 
j  rt  j1 

t=f 

T^ 

r^^  j  j  j 

!3  r  r  : 

HIBERNIAN    SONGSTER. 


217 


(fo'tt.  >  f  . 

S  —  r—  r 

r  ,  b.  j 

(y   w   ill 

she's   a  warm  and 

boldland;    Oh! 

she's  a  true  and 

old      land,  This 

-1  f   W     J 

native    Und  of 

ffi 

^ 

PEE3 

1.     [           |      J^ 

!   J     j    j    - 

|        4 

STV 

iff* 

K7    3 

sS 

^ 

Jfcjf 

st1 

r  i  i  r 


ijji — t*     -  ^    i  -  i     I    J    I       I  ~    '  1^      I  •    '    I       I        -     L 

v     mine  Could  beanty  ever      guard  her,  And     vir-tue  still  re  -  ward  her,          Hi 


g-f-f-51 


^m 


— F     P'T      MI     'i     !     '  L-  '  i   -  P  r   r   ' 

foe     would  cross       her       bor    .    -      der,        No    friend    within      it        pinel  . 


r^H 

O 

ll 

she's    a  free 

hand 

=±±ari  =1 

fair  land;    Oh! 

-t—  *—  *  — 

she's  a  true  and 

rare  land,   Tea,   , 

1    J        |          . 

ffcj'^l 

N 

1  r  r  * 

1  r  r  r 

f  ;-i  f 

.  .  1  •? 

j      J 

1 

^ 

j  J^   J 

^  j  r  r  r  'f  '  r  r  T  Jf  j1*^ 

^=p= 


ahe's  a  rare  and      fair          land;  This     no-tiro  land  of     mine.         Tes,   she's  a  rare  and 


ff 


e 


^ 


i^ 


fair      land,  This  na  -  tire  land     of    mine 

•  :  f  +• 


f 


%T& 


LMS  HYLAND'S    MAMMOTH 

THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 


x. 

Do  cfijAll  cam  CACA  63-Uoc  tjA 


ACAJI  £&r5ce  AIJI  50 

oinpeAcc  le  t7- 

cj|t  tjA  thbAi?  I  Afi  At?  lAoc-ceo]l  3ftj»)i7, 
DA  tij-bej&eAb  AI?  r^o^l  bo  b'  6AOjtA&, 
Aon  cfiujG  An)&]ij  le  bo  tbolAb  30  bjuo> 
'S  AOIJ  IAI;T>  Atbftii?  le  bo  f 


n. 

Do  cujc  AIJ  bAftb,  ACC  TIJA  cujc,  30 

tj|  A  C|iof6e  tjeAtb-eAstA 
5tV  Tt^ot  ]-e  ceubA  clAiitf^e  AI;  ceojl, 

Do  j-cuAb  f^»  Ai)  cp^  bj  reuurijAfi: 
tC'f  bubA]|tc;  i?|  ifyllpifc  cuius  bo  ^uc, 

?t  civile  cAO]!?  rjA  b-peAc  ]-AOJIA; 
Jr  ^1  clu|DjrfeA|t  30  b-eu5  bo  UD 

L^jt  bjtuj&e  A*f  bjiom  DA  cjjte 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

[T»ken  from  the  Irish  Version  of  the  "  Melodies,"  by  his  Once  the  Arcb> 
biahop  of  Tuam.] 

"  The  old  head  of  Denis." 

i. 
b-pu]l  AIJIJJ-  AIJ  5-cjin^nnc  AOIJ  cumAp,  170  oleatju. 

A  b-fu]l  c6-ri*«c  n*  t>ir  *bATj  Anrj  ; 
]r  li»Aice  bfe)6eAf  feAluiJce  UAITTJ,  ti>'  A|ipAT)i  V  mo  bplj, 
31  Af  ue  up  AT  njo  cpo|6e. 
n. 

0ib|»?i)  bj  r3*T>CA  *in  3A^ 

Nj  f*  loiWAp  A»)  cp|orcA]I,  no  up-lilac  TJA  3-cp*ob, 
Nf  fe  cori^Ap  >JA  fpuc*  rtjAp  eu5-ceol  mo^-ri3C, 
?tcc  oi&  61519  Oiof  *>'llre,  CA  AI;O  oo]rboeAcc  AI; 

nr. 

'S    lAb  TT70  CAIp&C,  60.CCAI73All    fTJO    CUtTJAtJO  V    "X> 
Do  fCAp    A|p    3AC   17)6  AT)!},  fS&lri)  fAfCA  15A  IPJAPJ 

O|p  ot'l  AOD  i)f6  &'A  A]Ue  IJAC  meuoui^cAon  A  bl<xc, 
pe  f-u|libvA]p  A  Tp-bibeAijij  ASAHJIJ  3P&6. 

IV. 

,1*  but>  fUAittjtjeAc  njo  ^U 

TAO|  frAr3A&  bo  CAbaitj  le  ITJO  CApA  pjop-buAtj; 
'J3  AIC  A  nj-hfei6njm&  6  OA  rJoncA]b  FAOJ  ojeeAU  30 
S  Art  3-cpojbce  ipAft  Oo  ciiig-fpucA   coti>eAr5CA  le  t>A|ti) 

•  AVOOA. 


HIBERNIAN  SONGSTER.  219 

THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  IAEA's  HALLS. 
FOOD  —  "  Molly  a  Stoir." 


,  bo 

5Aece  ceolcA 

ft  bAllAjb  'CeArijftA  'flojf  't)tj  A 
jreAjtrAb  ceojl,  ijo  fliyg: 

Ub    C&    'lj   C-AHJ,    du4]6    CA|tC,    pAO|    C6O, 

Jc»jl,  'f  A  clu  JTA<J|  fuAij; 
O|6ce,  'fAi7CU|j  tfjolcA  ceo, 
Ml  A]]t]5eAijjj  |At>  50 


11- 

CftU]C   TJA 

^  tu|ur-»]u3A8  bAi?,  tjo 

O|]t,  puA5tiAtjr?  i  bejc 

?  bft||-ce  ceub  'f  A  13-07866  ! 

I*"**  bo    '^   C-rAO||X|-ACC,    Y   AUAtij    CflA 

bu|*5CAti  i  50  beo, 
2lcc  'ijUA]]t  A  bfiifCAfi  C|toj6e  '3 
bejc  beo. 


DBAB  HARP  Olr  Ji£  COUNTRY. 


7- 

njo  Cffte,  AQI;  oopcAb*f  bj  f]occ, 
f&A  o|tc  jr&irsce  30 
l,  &'  6|f  bo  cu|bpe<xc  bejc 
bo  ceubAjb  |*3C|c  3Acce,  A*f  folujf  ]-AO|t 

A  bo  b'  AejiAj^e  Jj-  bu8 

21)5  buj-ACc  .bo  ceubA,  'b|  YU.WIW&]I,  curt)  ceojl  ; 
2lcc  b|6jf  co  rjeAri)-eol3AC  Ajfi  ptAftcAf  *f  A^ 
AI>  bjtorj  cnj  bo  f^lS!*  30 

11- 

le  bo  bjJKHJAeqb,  'cpujc  C|tojrn, 
So  Ai)  blAOi5  bfe|5pijAc  b&T?cA,  bo  b^AOfrAto'  A  6eAlb, 
cobAjl 


tijeujtA  olof  ]XUATI)A  AIP  bo  ceubAjb  cjui/, 


1)^  b]  qtoj&e  5Ajr3l3  cpeutjrijAiii,x|it-3ftA6A]5,  »;6 

fAO|, 

'3*  A  3-co]t|iu3uft, 

j    JtAjb  AO>>ATTJ- 
SljUf    UAJC-fO   bO   CAjtJIC    AO   ^UA1«J    bjlJIJ   Ari 


TOASTS  AND  SENTIMENTS. 


THE  IRISH  HEART.— Quick  and  strong  in  its  generous  impulses,  firm 
in  its  attachments,  sound  to  the  core. 

DANIEL  O'CONNELL.— Athens  boasted  of  a  Solon,  an  Aristides,  and 
a  Demosthenes,  but  Ireland  beholds  all  their  great  qualities  combined 
in  her  favorite  Son. 

JUSTICE  TO  IRELAND.— A  domestic  Legislature  alone  can  confer 
it;  to  expect  it  from  a  London  Parliament  is  an  idle  dream,  and  we 
Irishmen,  on  this  side  of  the  water,  hope  that  full  restitution  will  be 
made  for  past  injustice. 

THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  IRELAND,  entrenched  within  the  fortress  of 
paternal  affection:  May  they  neve-j  surrender  the  citadel  of  their  hearts, 
except  to  those  who  wield  the  arms  of  sincere  love,  chastened  by  morality 
and  temperance. 

THE  LADIES.— With  assiduity  we  court  their  smiles;  with  sorrow 
we  receive  their  frowns;  but  smiling  or  frowning,  we  love  them. 

HIBERNI  A.— Steeped  in  her  own  tears,  she  never  can  get  up:— soak- 
ing in  whisky,  she  must  go  down;— but  bathing  in  "coult  wather"  she 
will  get  on  "swimmingly." 

THE  MEMORY  OF  GEN.  THOMAS  FRANCIS  MEAGHER— a  martyr 
to  the  cause  of  American  liberty:  May  his  blood  constitute  an  enduring 
cement  of  friendship  between  the  land  of  his  birth  and  the  land  of  his 
adoption. 

THE  HARP  OF  IRELAND.— He  is  no  true  son  of  Erin  whose  heart 
does  not  respond  to  the  inspiration  of  its  numbers. 

IRELAND  AND  AMERICA.— May  the  former  soon  be  as  free  as  the 
latter,  and  may  the  latter  never  forget  that  Irishmen  were  instrumental 
in  securing  the  liberty  they  now  enjoy. 

ANDREW  JACKSON,  EX-PRESIDENT  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES.— 
The  son  of  Irish  parents;  in  retiring  from  office,  we  may  justly  say  in 
the  words  of  the  poet— 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God." 

THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  IRISHMEN.— May  they  never  forget  the 
respect  which  they  owe  to  the  land  which  contains  the  ashes  of  their 
fathers. 

THE  HEART  OF  AN  IRISHMAN.— A  living  monument  of  kind  and 
generous  feelings — while  the  hand  of  Charity  guides  the  stream,  may 
the  hand  of  Wealth  yield  a  perpetual  supply. 

IRISHMEN.— The  love  of  liberty  will  burn  in  their  bosoms  as  long  as 
their  bright  Isle  is  washed  by  the  ocean. 

THE  EMERALD  ISLE.— May  her  sons  and  daughters  resemble  a  field 
of  potatoes  in  full  bloom,  beautiful  to  look  upon;  and  when  called  on 
to  assist  the  distressed,  may  they,  like  the  roots,  prove  a  real  blessing  to 
the  poor. 

HORTICULTURAL  EXPERIMENTS.— May  the  tree  of  freedom  soon 
be  planted  in  Ireland,  and  may  John  Bull  find  it  as  difficult  to  uproot  it 
as  tie  found  it  here. 

an 


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